PR 5232 

.R5 A67 
Copy 1 



^y>j^?j 




COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY HAROLD ROORBACH 

mootfbncl'S full DCSCtttttibc Catalogue of Dramas, Comedies, Comediettas, Farces, 
Tabi. ux-vivants, Guide-books, Novel Entertainments for Church, School and Parlor 
Exhibitions, etc., containing complete and explicit information, will be sent to any address 
on receipt of a stamp for return postage. Address as above. 



ROORBACH'S AMERICAN EDITION. 



PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. 

This series embraces the best of plays, suited to the present time. The reprints have 
been rigidly compared with the original acting copies, so that absolute purity of 
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incidents, complete lists of properties and costumes, diagrams of the stage settings 
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somely printed from new electrotype plates, in readable type, on fine paper. 
Their complete introductions, textual accuracy, and mechanical jexcellence render 
these books far superior in every respect to all editions of acting plays hitherto 
published. 

i. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD. A comic drama in two acts. Six 
male, three female characters. Time, two hours. 

2. A SCRAP OF PAPER. A comic drama in three acts. Six male, six female 

characteis. Time, two hours. 

3. MY LORD IN LIVERY. A farce in one act. Five male, three female charac- 

ters. Time, fifty minutes. 

4. CABMAN No. 93. A farce in one act. Two male, two female characters. 

Time, lorty minutes. 

5. MILKY WHITE. A domestic drama in two acts. Four male, two female char- 

acters. Time, one hour and three quarters. 

6. PARTNERS FOR LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Seven male, four female 

characters. Time, two hours. 

7. WOODCOCK'S LITTLE GAME. A comedy-farce in two acts. Four male, 

four female characters. Time, one hour. 

8. HOW TO TAME YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW. A farce in one act. Four 

male, two female characters. Time, thirty-five minutes. 

9. LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET. A drama in two acts. Four male, three female 

characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. 

10. NOT SO BAD AFTER ALL. A comedy in three acts. Six male, five female 
characters. Time, one hour and forty minutes. 

xi. WHICH IS WHICH ? A comedietta in one act. Three male, three female 
characters. Time, fifty minutes. 

12. ICI ON PARLE FRANCAIS. A fare* in one act. Three male, four female 
characters. Time, forty-five minutes. 

13. DAISY FARM. A drama in four acts. Ten male, four female characters. 
Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 

14. MARRIED LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Five male, five female characters. 
Time, two hours. 

15. A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. A comedietta in one act. Two male, 
three female characters. Time, fifty minutes- 

16. LEND ME FIVE SHILLINGS. A farce in one act. Five male, two female 
characters. Time, one hour. 

17. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— Original Version. A drama in six acts. Fifteen 
male, seven female characters. Time, three hours. 

18. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— New Version. A drama in five acts. Seven 
male, five female characters. Time, two hours and a quarter. 

19. LONDON ASSURANCE. A comedy in five acts. Ten male, three female 
characters. Time, two hours and three quarters. 

20. ATCHI ! A comedietta in one act. Three male, two female characters. Time, 
forty minutes. 

2I ' yy**0 IS WHO ? A farce in one act. Three male, two female characters. 
Time, forty minutes. 

22. THE WOVEN WEB. A drama in four acts. Seven male, three female char- 
acters. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 



\ny of the above will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt / 

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HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New Yo-k. 



HOME 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
BY 

T. W. ROBERTSON 



New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the 
Original Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original 
Casts of the Characters, Argument of the Play, 
Time of Representation, Description of the 
Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia- 
gram of the Stage Setting, Sides of 
Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi- 
tions of the Performers, Expla- 
nation of the Stage Direc- 
tions, etc., and all of 
the Stage Business. 



Copyright, 1890, by Harold Roorbach. 




NEW YORK 

HAROLD ROORBACH 

PUBLISHER 



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HOME. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 



Alfred Dorrison {pass- 
ing under the name of 
" Colonel John White: 1 ) 

Capt. Mountraffe 

Mr. Dorrison 

Bertie Thompson 

Servants to Dorrison < 

Mrs. Pinchbeck 
Lucy Dorrison 
Dora Thornhaugh 



Haymarket, London, Wallaces, New York. 
Jan. 14th, 1869. Dec. 8th, 1873. 



Mr. Sothern. 
Mr. Compton. 
Mr. Chippendale. 
Mr. R. Astley. 
' Messrs. Johnson and 
James. 

Miss Ada Cavendish 
Miss lone Burke. 
Miss Caroline Hill. 



Mr. Lester Wallack. 
Mr. E. Arnott. 
Mr. J. Gilbert. 
Mr. W. R. Floyd. 



Miss Katharine Rodgers. 
Miss Effie Germon. 
Miss Kate Bartlett. 



Time of Performance. — Two Hours. 

Between Acts I and II occurs a lapse of two months; between Acts II 
and III a lapse of twelve hours. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Alfred Dorrison having run away from home when a mere lad, 
returns from America after a lapse of seventeen years to find his baby sister 
grown up to young womanhood engaged to Bertie Thompson, and his 
father about to marry Mrs. Pinchbeck, a handsome widow living in the 
neighborhood. Not knowing how he would be received in his own per- 
son, Alfred had brought a letter from himself introducing himself to his 
father as Col. John White. Determined to save his father from the 
misfortune of an ill assorted second marriage, and fearing to arouse Mrs. 
Pinchbeck's suspicions if known to be the long lost son, he adopts this 
alias, presents the letter of introduction to his father and is cordially 



4 HOME. 

welcomed and presented in turn to Mrs. Pinchbeck, whose face is 
familiar, and to her brother Captain Mountraffe, an unprincipled 
adventurer. 

Col. White, on looking up Mrs. Pinchbeck's record, finds his suspi- 
cions confirmed by the discovery that she is an adventuress pushed on by 
her scoundrel of a brother. To rescue his father from the fatal fascination 
of this woman who would be a curse and misery to him, and finding it 
necessary to fight her with her own weapons, he writes another letter to 
the elder Dorrison, from himself in Amerca, which tells that " White " is 
but the assumed name of a rich German count who, for sentimental rea- 
sons, desires to pass as a poor soldier that he may find a woman who will 
love him for himself alone. Col. White's design is that Mrs. Pinchbeck 
shall see the letter and set her cap for himself as a greater catch, thus 
opening the elder Dorrison's eyes to the folly of his projected marriage. 
Meanwhile an attachment has sprung up between Alfred and Dora 
Thornhaugh, an inmate of his father's house. Mrs. Pinchbeck falls into 
the snare, reads the bogus letter and, alive to the superior advantages of a 
marriage with the supposed count, is completely deceived by his sham 
addresses. But the Colonel's fervid declaration is interrupted by the sud- 
den appearance of the elder Dorrison, Lucy and Dora, who overhear 
all. Mrs. Pinchbeck repudiates him, Dora is contemptuous, and 
Dorrison orders the Colonel out of the house for his apparent treachery. 
Stung with the complete failure of his scheme for opening his father's eyes, 
Alfred is about to take his departure when Dora returns, having learned 
the true state of affairs, and is reconciled to him. But she has to fly to a 
hiding place at the sudden entrance of Mrs. Pinchbeck, dressed for a 
journey and determined to accompany the Colonel who has unwittingly 
won the woman's heart in spite of her ambition. The elder Dorrison 
appears just in time to hear his fiancee declare her love for the Colonel 
and her intention of going with him ; and infuriated at the outrage he 
seems to have suffered, Dorrison rushes wildly at the Colonel, which 
precipitates the disclosure that the latter is his long lost son. 

Mr. Dorrison's eyes are now fully opened and he gives Alfred carte 
blanche to adjust matters as he may deem best. The latter easily settles 
Mountraffe. Mrs. Pinchbeck shows that she is not really a designing 
woman but, instead, the victim of circumstances and an unprincipled 
brother; she departs really penitent and followed by the sincere regard of 
the family she had so nearly wronged. The elder Dorrison is completely 
cured of his infatuation ; Bertie and Lucy settle their affair happily ; 
and the Colonel and Dora determine to pass their honeymoon at 
Home. 

COSTUMES. 

"Colonel White" (Alfred Dorrison)— Act I; Black, or dark hair, 
rather close, light brown moustache and goatee, as worn by military officers 
during our war. Black frock-coat, light trousers, black high hat, gloves. 
Act II; The goatee removed, and the moustache trimmed ; hair a little 
longer. Gray trousers, walking coat of brown velvet, low crown black, 
hard felt hat. Act III; Black coat, dark trousers. 



HOME. 5 

Captain Mountraffe. — Act I; Close crop, black wig, rather after the 
pugilist's fashion ; short bristling black moustache. Black riding hat, light 
riding-trousers, dark velvet riding-coat, fancy waist-coat, figured shirt with 
colored collar, showy scarf, and pin of a gold fox-hunting whip with 
enamel lash, or of a similar sporting design. Act II; Smoking-cap, and 
flowered-pattern dressing-gown. Act III ; The same. 

Mr. Dorrison. — White wig. Black coat, light vest and trousers, eye- 
glass hanging by black ribbon. Flower in button hole. 

Bertie Thompson. — Walking-dress, hat. 

Servants. — In plain livery. 

Mrs. Pinchbeck. — All her dresses are in the height of fashion. Act I ; 
Body and skirt of different colors, train, hair fashionably arranged. Act II; 
House dress; hair rather plain, dark shoes, corresponding in color with her 
dress. A black mantel for her last entrance. Act III ; Black velvet 
dress, trimmed and edged with black silk, and a few jet beads. Brooch 
and earings, jet and gold. Wedding ring worn all through the piece. 

Lucy Dorrison, Dora Thornhough. — Fashionable house dresses. 
Cloaks for them in Act II. 

PROPERTIES. 

Act I. — Handbell on table, r. C. Sheets of music on piano and music 
stand. Letter for Col. White. Tray with luncheon, decanter, glasses, 
claret jug and silver tankard. Letter for Lucy. Flower and letter for 
Mr. Dorrison. Gong outside. Cigars in case, and matches for 
Mountraffe. 

Act II. — Miniature case with ring, and photograph for Col. White. 
Music book for Dora. Book for Mrs. Pinchbeck. Gun for Mr. Dor- 
rison. Lighted candle for Mountraffe. Writing materials on table l. 
Umbrella for Bertie. Lightning and rain, r. u. e. Explosion, as for gun- 
discharge, off r. u. E. 

Act III. — Sunset effect, r. u. e. Jelly in saucer, with spoon. Pistol 
case and horse whip for Col. White. Cane for Bertie. Blank cheque 
for Col. White. Locket for Mrs. Pinchbeck. 

STAGE SETTING AND SCENE PLOT. 



Garden Backing 
Mindoir < ; 1 Windoi 




6 HOME. 

Scene. — Drawing-room boxed in 3 g. Garden backing in 4 G. Win- 
dows to floor, with curtains, R. and L. in flat. Doors L. I E. and L. 3 E. 
Fire-place and mantel l. 2 e. Large open French window R. 2 e., with 
curtains drawn aside, leading by two steps to conservatory. Glass wall of 
conservatory leading oft", r. 3 e. Table and two chairs l. Sofa r. of 
table. Table and ottoman r. c. Pedestal, with statuette, c., against flat. 
Piano and music-stand up R. c. Screen up l. c. Chairs R. and c. Three 
chairs l. Portrait of a lady over fire-place. On mantel, clock, candle-sticks 
with candles, vases, etc. Carpet down. Rug at fire-place. In Act II, 
the table R. C. is shifted to R., and the ottoman to R. c, transversely to the 
audience. 

STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

In observing, the player is supposed to face the audience. R., means 
right; l., left; c, centre; R. C, right of centre; l. c, left of centre; d. 
f., door in the flat or back scene; r. f., right side of the flat; L. F., left 
side of the flat; R. D., right door; L. D., left door; C. D., centre door; I E., 
first entrance; 2 e., second entrance; u. e., upper entrance; I, 2 or 3 G., 
first, second or third grooves ; up stage, towards the back ; down stage, 
towards the audience. 

R. R. C. C. L. C. L. 

Note. — The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original 
authorized acting edition, without change. The introductory matter has 
been carefully prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book 
protected by copyright. 





HOME. 



ACT I. 



Scene. — Drawing-room looking on garden, R. — the roo?n altogether 
handsomely furnished — Lucy discovered seated on a sofa, L. c. , 
holding a note. 

Lucy, {agitated} It's past twelve. What can it mean? (read- 
ing) " Will come in by the kitchen garden when I have watched 
your papa out." [looking from window) There he is ! There's my 
Bertie ! [kissing her hand) He's standing on the gate ! He sees 
me ! Now he's tumbled down and hurt himself! Poor fellow! I 
know he's bruised. That nasty gate to go and let him fall ! Why, 
he's coming in at the window and not at the door! What does 
this mean ? (enter Bertie from R. window, limping) Bertie ! 

Ber. Lucy ! [they squeeze hands ; Bertie sits on ottoman, R., and 
hides his face in his hands) All is over ! 

Lucy. Have you hurt yourself so much, then? I saw you fall. 

Ber. It isn't that. 

Lucy. What then ? 

Ber. I am forbidden the house. 

Lucy. What? 

Ber. Your father has forbidden me the house. 

Lucy. For what reason ? 

Ber. Yesterday, when you and Dora were out 

Lucy. Yes. 

Ber. Mamma told him her mind. 

Lucy. About Mrs. Pinchbeck ? 

Ber. Yes. 

Lucy, [falling into chair, c. ) Oh, Bertie ! 



8 HOME. 

Ber. And they had a row, an awful row, the sort of row old 
friends have when they do row, and your pa told me he would not 
have me here any more, {starting up, kneels at her feet and clasps 
her hands) Lucy, do you love me ? 

Lucy. Bertie ! 

Ber. We shall never be married. 

Lucy. Oh, Bertie ! 

Ber. We are doomed to part. 

Lucy. No, Bertie, we are not. You know, dear, we can always 
run away. 

Ber. So we can. [rises) That's some comfort. But how are we 
to get the money ? 

Lucy, (rises) The money will come of itself. When two people 
love each other it always comes right at last. 

Ber. But I shan't be able to see you. (walks about) 

Lucy. Yes, you will. 

Ber. How — when — where? 

Lucy. Somehow — sometime — somewhere ! 

Ber. You'll always love me then? 

Lucy. Always. 

Ber. Devotedly ? 

Lucy. Fondly. 

Enter Servant showing in Colonel White, l. u. e. 

Ber. Truly ? 

Col. (l. c.) I beg your pardon ; but the servant showed me in 

here, — if I'm not intruding 

ucy. i q^ nQ , ^y e are (they go up) 

Col. Yes, I saw you were. You're delighted to see me, of course ? 
Just so. (crosses to R., looking about the roo?n — Lucy watches him) 
I wish to speak to Mr. Dorrison. 

Lucy. Papa ! Papa is out ; he'll soon be back. 

Ber. (aside) Worse luck, (goes up) 

Col. (regarding Lucy with intense interest) Papa ! Then you are 
Miss Dorrison ? 

Lucy. Yes. 

Ber. For the present, (comes down, l. ) 

Col. Lucy Dorrison? (faltering) 

Lucy. Yes ! 

Col. Ah ! (sighs) 

Lucy. You seem fatigued. 

Col. (embarrassed) No, quite fresh — from America. 

Lucy. That's a long way. 

Ber. Sit down. 

Col. (sits, R.) Thank you. And you are Lucy Dorrison — little 
Lucy — the baby grown so tall. How old are you ? 



HOME. 9 

T ' \ Seventeen. 

Lucy. j 

Col. Seventeen ! are you so long — I mean, is it so long? 

Lucy, [to Bertie) What an odd man ! Who is he ? 

Ber. {whispers) Perhaps he's the fellow come to take the 
census. 

Lucy, [to Colonel) Papa will not be long. 

Col. Papa won't, won't he? {catches sight of picture l.; he 
rises; a pause) Isn't that mamma ? Your mamma ? 

Lucy. Yes, poor mamma ; she's [a pause) 

Col. Dead? 

Lucy. Yes, years ago ; when I was quite a child, [turns to look 
at picture) 

Col. {after a pause, catching hold of Lucy in his arms and kissing 
her) Lucy, don't you know me? 

Lucy, {alarmed) Bertie! 

Ber. {indignantly) I say 

Col. Don't be alarmed, darling, [kissing her) I am your brother 
Alfred. (Lucy sinks into chair, c.) 

Lucy. Brother Alfred ! 

Ber. Brother Alfred ! 

Col. Grown such a fine girl. When I left you were a baby. 

Lucy. La ! My brother Alfred, whom I never saw before, to my 
remembrance. Perhaps that's the reason I did not know you. 
I am so glad to see you, my dear brother. 

Ber. Very glad, my dear brother, [shaking Colonel's hands, 
which are round Lucy's waist) 

Col. Eh ! but you have been born since I was away. You're 
not a never-known, unexpectedly-turned-up, long-lost brother. 

Ber. No, but I'm Lucy's sweetheart. It's the same thing. 

Col. Lucy's sweetheart ! The baby got a sweetheart? Why, I 
left you asleep in a cradle, and now I am come back 

Lucy. You find me awake, and engaged, [takes Bertie's 
arm) 

Col. Yes, you're awake, but I seem to be dreaming. Sixteen 
years have passed like a single night. It is to-morrow morning, 
and I'm still asleep. Have sixteen years passed? (Lucy goes to 
Colonel) Have I run away ? Have I come back again ? [kissing 
Lucy) Yes, I have. Here I stood in this very room. The fur- 
niture the same, everything the same, except that picture ; that 
was not there. My father had just gone out of that door ; we had 
had a furious quarrel. I threatened to leave home ; he told me 
to go. (Lucy takes Colonel's arm) I said I'd enlist as a soldier. 
He told me I hadn't the courage ; that stung me. I'd a few 
pounds I went up to London. I did not enlist for a soldier. If 
my mother had been at home I should not have gone. From 
London I went to Liverpool ; and half-starved, I worked my way 



IO HOME. 

to New York as a common sailor, or rather as an uncommon lands- 
man. In ten years I made a fortune ; and when the war broke 
out I went into the army. I always intended to write home ; but 
as post after post, packet after packet sailed away, I put it off. I 
return to find the same place but {looking at -picture} not the same 
people. I am a man ; you are a grown girl ; and this is Home. 
(crosses, L.) It's like a fairy tale ; and all that's wanted to com- 
plete it is a magic door to open, (turns) and a beautiful princess to 
walk in, with whom I fall in love directly, and who falls in love 
with me, and makes me happy ever after, (during the last few 
lines Dora enters, d. l. I e. ; pause) 

Lucy. Here's the beautiful princess, (crosses to Dora) 

Dora. I beg your pardon, (going) 

Lucy. Don't go. Let me introduce you to my brother. Miss 
Dora Thornhaugh. She's staying with us. 

Col. (aside) Is she ? I wish she'd stay with me. (Colonel 
struck) 

Dora. Your brother ? 

Ber. Yes, our brother. 

Lucy. Alfred, from America. 

Dora. Whom you believed to be dead? 

Col. (flurried) Quite a mistake ! I am not dead, I assure 
you. 

Dora. It was only yesterday that your papa, Mr. Dorrison, was 
speaking of you. 

Col. (interested) Yesterday ? 

Lucy. Yes, he said he'd give the world to know if you were 
alive. 

Col. Did he? (affected) Did he ? 

Dora. And to hear from you. 

Ber. 1 remember his very words. (Colonel crosses to Bertie) 
To hear of him even through a third person. 

Col. (repeating mechanically a?id watching Dora) Through a 
third person ! 

Dora. Singular, isn't it ? 

Col. (meclianically) Third person singular it is. 

Lucy. But, brother Alfred, why did you go away ? (sits, C.) 

Ber. Yes, and why did you come back? (sits, R. c, on otto- 
man) 

Col. (sits, R. C, on ottoman) I went away because I was an 
idiot, and a bad-hearted, hot-headed, self-willed, ruffianly boy. 

Dora, (sits on sofa, l.) You were very young then, and perhaps 
Mr. Dorrison was rather harsh — severe. 

Col. No, he wasn't, (looks at picture) 

Lucy. He said he was yesterday. Poor mamma ! (looking at 
same picture over fireplace) I don't remember her. (Colonel sighs) 
Pa's going to be married again. 



HOME. 1 1 

Col. What? 

Lucy. Yes, he's going to take a second wife. It makes us so 
unhappy. 

Ber. Me particularly, brother Alfred. 

Col. {looking at picture) A second wife ? 

Lucy. Yes. We'll tell you all about it, and perhaps you can 
advise us. Last autumn he took me to Scarborough, and there 
we met a Mrs. Pinchbeck. 

Col. A widow ? 

Lucy. Yes. 

Dora. She says she's a widow. 

Ber. So does her brother. 

Col. Oh, she's got a brother too, has she ? Pity so many nice 
girls have brothers. 

Lucy. Captain Mountrafife. 

Col. Oh, military ? 

Lucy. Yes. 

Ber. He says so. 

Lucy. Well, papa fell in love. 

Col. [looking at Dora) How stupid! 

Ber. Over head and ears. 

Col. Idiotic ! 

Ber. Wasn't it? [looking at 'Lucy) 

Lucy. And he used to walk her about, and in three weeks they 
were engaged. 

Ber. How improper ! [looking at Lucy) 

Col. Horrible! [looking at Dora) 

Lucy. And papa has let her have the White Cottage to live in. 

Col. Where the Kennedys used to be twenty years ago? 

Lucy. And all the ladies in the neighborhood say that there is 
something about her they don't like. 

Col. They mean she's handsome. 

Lucy. No. 

Col. Women are seldom enthusiastic about each other. What 
does Miss Thornhaugh think of her ? 

Dora. I dislike her. 

Col. For what reason ? 

Dora. For no reason. From instinct. 

Col. That's the best reason. Who is she? What was she? 

Lucy. Nobody knows. 

Ber. Even I don't; but all sorts of things are whispered. 

Col. I hate whispers. In cases of this sort people should be out- 
spoken and loud, [dropping his voice) Should they not, Miss 
Thornhaugh ? 

Dora, [lowering her eyes) I think so. 

Lucy. But what's to be done, brother Alfred ? 

Col. [rises) Hold hard, let me see how we stand. Mrs. 



12 HOME. 

Ber. Pinchbeck. 

Col. Pinchbeck is a widow ? 

Ber. Yes. 

Col. That's bad. 

Lucy. Been married twice. 

Col. That's worse; she's a double-barrelled widow. Cuts with 
both husbands — I mean with both edges. 

Ber. Rather fast. 

Col. Round hat, sea-side ribbons fluttering ? All that, eh ? 
(Bertie nods and rises — Lucy rises) Um, urn, and you're sure that 
my father wants to marry her ? 

Ber. Immediately. 

Col. I'll try and open his eyes to his danger. 

Lucy. Will you? You dear brother! [shakes Colonel's left 
hand) 

Col. Brother ! Aye, about her brother — the Pinchbeckian brother 
— what kind of fellow is he ? 

Ber. A cad. 

Lucy. Very low. 

Dora. A most presuming person, (rises and comes down, L.) 

Col. (jealous) Is he ? 

Ber. He's always playing bagatelle at the Nag's Head. 

Col. Where I left my portmanteau. 

Lucy. And he gets so tipsy. 

Col. After dinner ? 

Ber. And before dinner too. 

Col. Agreeable 'possum. 

Ber. The worst of it is that my mother told your father what she 
thought of the match. They had a row, and she — that's my 
mother — got into a passion. Did you ever see my mother in a 
passion ? 

Col. Never had that pleasure. 

Ber. I have. I am forbidden the house. 

Col. Why? 

Ber. Mr. Dorrison said he would have nobody within his doors 
who dared express a doubt as to the perfect eligibility of Mrs. 
Pinchbeck ; and ma said he was an old fool, and so 

Col. That was strong. And so you're courting my sister — my 
little Lucy ? 

Ber. Yes. I have loved her ever since the early age of two. 
You know it was first arranged that I was to marry Dora. 

Col. Dora? (jealous) I beg pardon, Miss Thornhaugh. 

Ber. But I never cared for her, did I, Dora ? 

Dora. Never. 

Col. (aside) He's an idiot. 

Ber. And Dora never cared for me. Did you, Dora ? 

Dora. Never. 



HOME. 13 

Col. (aside) What a charming girl. Care for him ! I should 
think not. 

Ber. So we cried off. 

Col. (aside) The lunatic ! 

Ber. And Lucy and I cried on. 

Lucy, (crosses to Bertie) And we are so fond of each other, 
brother Alfred ! (they go up, and then to window, R. ) 

Col. (aside) I wonder if anybody could be fond of me. This is 
the most charming girl. 

Ber. (at window-curtain, r.) Here's Mr. Dorrison and Mrs. 
Pinchbeck coming down the garden. 

Col. (at R. window) And that's my father? He looks older, 
and he's white about the head where he used to be so black. I 
wish Mrs. Pinchbeck would show her face. She's plucking a 
flower. Now she puts it into the governor's coat. Poor old gov' ! 
It's a case, but I'll save him. (looks at his mother s picture) I'll 
save him. 

Lucy. Papa is coming on with his letters. 

Ber. (crosses to l.) I must go out by the back kitchen. 

Dora, (goes up, L.) I don't want to meet Mrs. Pinchbeck. 

Col. Stay! I'm reckoned a smart man in the West. I didn't 
know how I should be received here, so I brought a letter from 
myself, (producing letter) introducing Colonel White. 

Lucy. Colonel White ? 

Ber. Eh ! 

Col. If I am known to be the long-lost son, Mrs. Pinchbeck's 
suspicions will be awakened. Better be Colonel White. 

Lucy. Oh, yes ; it will be such fun. 

Ber. Capital. 

Col. So if Miss Thornhaugh doesn't mind humoring a deception 
that may tend to good 

Dora. Your secret is safe with me. Exit, D. L. u. e. 

Ber. Good-bye, Lucy, (whispering) I shall be in the back 
kitchen at 8.30, on the left hand side of the mangle. 

Exit, d. l. 1 e. ; Lucy crosses and looks off, l. i e. 

Col. Lucy, now for it. I'll tell you what I 

Enter Mr. Dorrison, r. window — he has a flower in his button- 
hole, and letters in his hand — Lucy crosses to c. 

Mr. D. Business, business ! as if I could attend to business. I 
have something higher, purer, nobler, (seeing Colonel) Eh, I beg 
your pardon. 

Lucy. Papa, a gentleman to speak to you. 

Col. As I am a stranger I must introduce myself. (Lucy going, 
R.) My name is White — Colonel White, of the Minnesota Rifles. 

Mr. D. Lucy, my dear. (Lucy is going) 



14 HOME. 

Col. The young lady need not go, for it's a family matter. I 
have to — I have a letter of introduction, (crosses to Mr. Dorrison) 

Mr. D. From whom ? 

Col. From your son. 

Mr. D. From my son ? From Alfred ? 

Col. Yes, he's a comrade of mine. 

Mr. D. In the American army ? 

Col. Yes. 

Mr. D. Phew ! My son alive ? Thank Heaven ! Thank Heaven ! 
(sits down affected, R., on ottoman) 

Col. (c, aside to Lucy) Poor old gov ! he's my father and he 
feels it. 

Mr. D. (r.) Lucy, my love, your brother is alive — Alfred whom 
I have so often spoken of. 

Lucy. (l. ) Yes, papa, the gentleman has already told me. 
(aside) I feel so wicked, but I suppose it is right for people to feel 
wicked sometimes. 

Col. How naturally she takes to deception ; like a young duck- 
ling to the water. I wonder if Dora will do it as well. 

Mr. D. (reading) "Well, and happy, and prosperous." (shak- 
ing hands with Colonel) My dear sir, you are most welcome. 
Of course you have come to stay with us. Where is your luggage? 

Col. I left it at the station three miles off. 

Mr. D. Lucy, tell George to drive over and fetch it. 

Lucy, (aside, and running up stage) Certainly, papa! My 
brother ! Oh, how will all this end ? Exit, d. l. u. e. 

Mr. D. I long to hear of his career. And so he is a soldier. 
(sitting on ottoman, R.) Tell me, my dear Colonel 

Col. White, (sits L. of ottoman) 

Mr. D. Colonel White, tell me all about him ; how he is. Do 
you know your face somewhat reminds me of him ? 

Col. We have been considered alike. 

Mr. D. And where is he now ? Does he intend to return to 
England? My dear boy — my son — my — (Mrs. Pinchbeck out- 
side ivindow, r. ) 

Mrs. P. Alfred ! (Colonel rises) 

Mr. D. (rising and going up) That voice ! Excuse me, but a 
lady I have kept waiting. We dine at six. We are very quiet 
people here ; don't take the trouble to dress. After dinner we can 
talk. I'll send for your luggage. My dear Colonel White, con- 
sider this house your home while you are in England. We are 
very quiet people here. 

Enter Captain. Mountraffe, flushed with drink, d. l. u. e., 

down l. 

Mount. They've cleared the lunch away. 

Col. (aside) I suppose this is brother Pinchbeck. 



HOME. 1 5 

Mr. D. This dreadful man! [rings, aside; aloud) Lunch. 
Perhaps, Colonel White, you will take some lunch ? A glass of 
sherry and a biscuit? (Servant enters, d. l. u. e. Mountraffe 
whispers to him, and Servant exit) It shall be brought to you 
here. 

Mrs. P. [outside, in sweet tones) Alfred ! 

Mr. D. Pamela, one moment, (at window) An arrival. Permit 
me to introduce you. Colonel White, Captain Mountraffe, the 
brother of my intended. Captain Mountraffe of the Acapultec 
Avengers. 

Mount. Mexican Cavalry. Irregulars. 

Mrs. P. (without) Alfred ! 

Mr. D. (on steps) Pray excuse me. (runs off at window, R. 
dinner gong — Servant enters, d. l. u. e. ; clears table, l. ) 

Col. (down, r.) Poor old gov! (looking at Mountraffe) This 
fellow a soldier ! why, he's never been drilled. 

Mount, (aside) I wonder who this chap is? Is he flat, or is he 
fly-green or down, righteous or shoful ? 

Col. Pleasant day ; been riding? (looking at his trousers) 

Mount. No, I've been playing bagatelle. 

Col. Bagatelle ! 

Enter Servant with lunch on tray, d. l. u. e. 

Mount. They've no billiard-room at the " Nag's." This is a 
d d hole. No wine, no nothing. 

Servant puts lunch on table, l. 

Ser. Claret, sir; or would you take some beer? 

Mount. No, champagne. 

Ser. Sir? 

Mount. Champagne ! don't you hear ? Champagne ! Two 
bottles, one for me, one for the other gentleman. 

Col. I don't generally drink a bottle of champagne for lunch. 
(crosses, l.) 

Mount. Never mind, I'll drink it for you. I'm thirsty. Open 
both bottles, and pour them into that large silver tankard. 

Exit Servant, d. l. u. e. 

Col. Phew ! Smells of tobacco like yesterday's canteen, (sits, 
L. of table, l. ) 

Mount. Don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you here 
before, (sitting on sofa , R. o/l.. table) 

Col. No, 1 have only just arrived. Allow me (helping 

him) 

Mount. I'm not hungry. I've had one or two nips of brandy at 
the " Nag." 

Col. Nice place, the " Nag." 



1 6 HOME. 

Mount. Slow — skittle alley, but no tables. Do you know Mr. 
Dorrison ? 

Col. Slightly. 

Mount. I know him intimately, (enter Servant with tankard, 
d. l. u. e.) Oh, here you are. 

Servant puts down tankard on table, L., goes off, l. d. and returns 

with claret jug. 

Col. Have you retired from the army, Captain ? 

Mourn. Yes. 

Col. What service were you in ? 

Mount. Cavalry, Mexican Cavalry. Acapultec Avengers. 
Your health, (drinks) Old Dorrison's wine's capital. 

Col. Sharp work in Mexico lately. 

Mount. Sharp! (getting gradually drunk) I've been in the 
saddle forty hours together. 

Col. I've no doubt, (aside) Running away the whole time. 

Mount. By Jove, sir ! when the trumpet used to sound the 
charge (drinks) and we used to form (drinks) and we saw the 
enemy behind us — I mean before us — we used to — (drinks) Oh, 
beautiful ! Have you seen any service ? 

Col. A little, (aside) This fellow's a liar. I'll try him. I had 
a friend in the Mexican Calvary — one Frank Adderly. 

Mount. Fair man? (looking in tankard) 

Col. Yes. 

Mount. Tall? 
; Col. Six feet. 

Mount. Knew him well. 

Col. (aside) That's a lie for he don't exist. 

Mount. He was my second in a duel. 

Col. Were you hit ? 

Mount. No. I killed my man. (drinks) But I have been hit — 
(rises) — here, there, everywhere — (sits) — in fact, my body is so 
scarred I should be ashamed to be seen undressed. 

Col. You're quite right. Always wear clothes ; the less that's 
seen of you the better. 

Mount. Oh ! my old companions, my brave comrades, good 
hearts and true, excuse a manly tear, (maudlin) 

Col. By all means ; shed two if you find it agreeable. 

Mount, (solemnly) Here's to their memory, (drinks) 

Col. To their memory, (drinks a glass of claret) 

Mount, (rises, shaking hands) You're a man. Have a cigar? 
(offers case) 

Col. We mustn't smoke in the drawing-room. 

Mount. I may. (lights cigar) I can do as I like here. (Colonel 
looks at his mother s picture) Dorrison is sweet upon my sister. 



HOME. 1 7 

[laughs) They're going to be spliced, [laughs') Queer old cuss. 
So it's Liberty Hall for me. (sings) Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall. 

Col. (aside) I suppose at present it would be premature to kick 
him. So Mr. Dorrison is sweet on your sister? 

Mount. Yes, quite right, he should be, for I am sweet upon his 
daughter. Nice little thing. Have you seen her? 

Col. Yes. And does she reciprocate ? 

Mount. She has cast an eye on the young soldier, and his 
appearance has had its usual effect. If old Dorrison would shell 
out handsomely — and I think he would to get rid of me — she'd 
make a nice little wife, (rises) But I've two strings to my bow. 
There's a Miss Thornhaugh — Dora — staying here, a friend of my 
Lucy's. 

Col. A friend of your Lucy's — yes. 

Mount. She has cast a favorable eye upon yours truly. What's 
the matter ? (sits) 

Col. Nothing, a pain — a tingling. 

Mount. In your head ? 

Col. In my foot. 

Mount. Gout ? (gelling more drunk) 

Col. No, irritability. I can kick it off — I mean I can walk it off. 

Mount. So whichever has the most cash, I'll make Mrs. Captain 
Mountraffe. What have we soldiers of fortune but our appearance 
to live upon? Here's the health of Mrs. Captain Mountraffe, 
Lucy or Dora, whichever she may be. You must see these two 
girls and give me your opinion as to my selection. What's your 
name ? 

Col. White. 

Mount. White, my dear boy, (rises) between ourselves there's 
only one thing disgusts me with women. 

Col. What's that ? 

Mount. They are so d — d selfish. Selfishness is a bad thing. 
[lakes up glass of claret and drinks) 

Col. In women. 

Mount. Beastly. Give me your hand, (shakes hands, but Col- 
onel puts napkin round his hand ) The grasp of friendship knits 
the (falls on sofa) Black, my boy, vou're drunk. 

Col. Am I ? 

Mount. Very drunk. Oh, Black, I'm ashamed of you, and 
(going to sleep) you're asleep, too. Let's go to sleep together. The 

grasp of friendship (dinner gong) of friendship — knits the — 

heart, (sleeps on sofa) 

Col. What a skunk ! (enter Dorrison and Mrs. Pinchbeck 
from window, R., come down, c. Lucy and Dora enter, d. l. u. e.) 
Nothing to be got out of him about his sister. How shall I — Oh, 
here's the governor, (crosses, R.) 

Mr. D. Colonel, though you have lunched so recently, will you 



1 8 HOME. 

come down to dinner? {introducing) Mrs. Pinchbeck, Colonel 
White, my son's friend. 

Col. (aside) I know that face. (Mrs. Pinchbeck highly fasci- 
nating) 

Mr. D. Will you give Mrs. Pinchbeck your arm, Colonel ? Dora, 
my dear, [taking Dora's) Lucy, Captain MountrafTe will — (sees 
him asleep) Ah, Lucy, you must follow by yourself. 

Colonel takes off Mrs. Pinchbeck; Dorrison, Dora, d. l. u. 
e. — At that moment Bertie enters window, r. and runs to Lucy, 
kneels at her feet, and is about to kiss her hand — Mountraffe 
yawns, which frightens Bertie ; he is running off as the drop 
falls quickly. 

END OF ACT I. 



ACT II. 

A LAPSE OF TWO MONTHS. 

Scene. — As before, excepting table, R. C, which is shifted to R., and 
ottoma?i to r. c. — Mountraffe discovered, r. of table l., on edge 
of sofa — Mrs. Pinchbeck at fireplace, l., with elbows resting on 
mantelshelf. 

Mount. Pain, I don't understand your game. 

Mrs. P. (coming down L. of fireplace) I don't suppose you can; 
you're generally drunk. 

Mount. Are you going to marry old Dorrison, or are you 
not? 

Mrs. P. Didn't we arrange between us that I was to become 
Mrs. Dorrison ? (sighing) 

Mount. Certainly, that was the idea. 

Mrs. P. Well ? 

Mount. Well, for the last two months, ever since the arrival of 
this Colonel White, you've kept putting off and putting off what 
old Dorrison calls the happy day. (Mrs. Pinchbeck sighs) 
White only arrived back from London yesterday, and I've 
watched you, and it seems to me that you're setting your cap at 
him. 

Mrs. P. What if I am ? 

Mount. You're playing a wrong game. Dorrison's rich, a 
wealthy retired manufacturer, something in iron, coal mines, 



HOME. 19 

sugar-tongs and such like. What's White ? A soger, without 
means — a colonel, he says, like me. 

Mrs. P. {rising, crossing to R.) Like you ? Why, he has fought, 
and is a gentleman. Like you ! a loafing vagabond, fit only to 
swear in a tap-room or get tipsy in a kitchen, [sits on ottoman, R. ) 

Mount, [laughs) Are you trying to hurt my feelings, or do you 
wish to awaken me to a sense of shame? Don't cut up rough, or 
it will be worse for you. What am I? Ugh ! What are you? 

Mrs. P. A degraded wretch ! for 1 am your sister. 

Mount. You're something else besidesthat. Don't do the grand 
because you think you're going to be independent of me. Think 
of all I've done for you and be grateful. When our honored 
papa, who was a corn-cutter by trade, and a swindler by profes- 
sion, died, leaving us no inheritance but his own bad name and 
worse character, didn't I get you married ? 

Mrs. P. To a man old enough to be my father. 

Mount. What of that ? I thought he had plenty of ready. 

Mrs. P. He hadn't a penny. 

Mount. No, the old villain, so I found out when it was too late. 
However, he died soon ; in a year you were a widow. Then I 
married you to poor Fritz. 

Mrs. P. An adventurer. 

Mount. One of the finest billiard players in Europe, and as for 
cards, he could make them do as he liked, and he did. Wasn't 
it my idea, our going to America ? 

Mrs. P. [rising) Silence, you utter scamp! Remind me no 
more of what is past, or how you have taken me from the Spa to 
the sea-side, from table d'hote to table d'hote, that I might catch 
a flat as you call it, and that you might win money of the poor 
dupe who thought me a fine woman, and who listened, too, as I 
displayed the only poor accomplishment I had. Oh, how I hate 
the piano ! Oh. I hate men ! [crosses to L. ) 

Mount, [rises] Both good things to play upon. Ha, ha! very 
good ; full of notes. Ha, ha ! very good again. 

Mrs. P. Oh, how I pant to rid myself of the past, and of you, 
you incubus ! To take my place amongst the wealthy, the respect- 
able, the noble of the world ; to feel no longer an adventuress, 
the jest of every saucy boy and impertinent old man. To drive 
round to the tradesfolk and say, " Send it to the Lodge." Oh, I 
shall accomplish it, I will! I feel that a change is coming over 
me. [crosses to R.) 

Mount. If you've done play-acting, and trying to persuade 
yourself that you're a good and injured creature, and failing to do 
so, perhaps you will tell me what's your programme. Is it silly 
old Dorrison, or Yankee White? 

Mrs. P. [changing her manner) I'll tell you. See if any one's 
about. 



20 HOME. 

Mountraffe^ws to l. d., then sits, L. of table, l. 

Mount. Not a peppercorn in the castor. 

Mrs. P. (r. of table, l.) Before Colonel White went to London 
I was sitting in the study with Mr. Dorrison, when he was called 
out to see somebody. I noticed that he appeared very much 
absorbed in a letter that lay upon the table before him. When he 
left the room I wanted to see what it was. 

Mount. Naturally. 

Mrs. P. I read it. 

Mount. Of course. 

Mrs. P. It was from his son in America. 

Mount. White's friend? 

Mrs. P. Yes. I learnt it by heart, and remember every word. 
The letter said : — " Pardon me, my dear father, for having intro- 
duced a stranger beneath your roof under an assumed name. 
My friend, the Graf von Eberstein, is a most singular man. Of 
one of the first families in Germany, enormously rich, the owner 
of large estates, he chose to come to America to serve as a simple 
soldier in the National army. It is now his pleasure to visit Eng- 
land in search of a wife. He is intensely sentimental, and desires 
to meet a woman who will love him for himself alone. To this 
end he wished me to introduce him as an American officer, in short 
as Colonel White — so that divested of the appendages of rank, 
and wealth, and power, he might win the woman of his heart. I 
humored his scheme in the hope that my dear sister, Lucy, might 
love and be beloved by him, for his name, title and distinction are 
his smallest merits." 

Mount. A German nobleman ! You take away my breath. 

Mrs. P. Do I ? What a service I am rendering to society ! 

Mount. Pam, it's a do. (rises) 

Mrs. P. Eh ? 

Mount. A plant. I've suspected that Colonel all along. 

Mrs. P. But the hand-writing was Alfred Dorrison's. 

Mount. That might be forged. 

Mrs. P. But the allusions to his sister ; his wish that he should 
marry her. 

Mount. That looks true. Selfishness is always righteous. 

Mrs. P. To be a lady ! to go to Court ! 

Mount, (l.) If he's a German swell, he might get me a license 
for a table. Oh, my little rouge et noir ! Oh, my little pair et 
impair! Oh, my little passe et manque pr-r-r-r. (imitates roulette') 

Mrs. P. To lean on his arm, to see him wait with his hat off as 
I step into the carriage, (aloud) It's a bright dream. 

Mount, (goes to her) Pammey, wake up. It's delusion, night- 
mare, moonshine, wind, gas, bosh, (crosses to R.) Stick to old 



HOME. 2 1 

Dorrison, and — (enter Colonel, d. l. u. e.) How are you, Col- 
onel? Talk of the German nobility and 

Mrs. P. Sorry I'm forced to run away, Colonel, but — {aside to 
Colonel) I'm waited for. {crosses to L.) I'll be back in an hour. 
Will you be here ? (Colonel signifies assent) 

Mount, {aside) She's at it. {crosses to l. — exit Mrs. Pinchbeck, 
d. l. u. e.; aloud) I'm going to ride that new horse of Mr. Dorri- 
son' s. 

Col. Take care you are not thrown. 

Mount. Why? {at door) 

Col. You'd hurt yourself. 

Mount, {aside) I think he means mischief. Adios, as we used to 
say in Mexico. 

Lucy enters at window, R. Mountraffe ogles her and goes off, D. 

l. u. e. 

Col. Brother Pinchbeck suspects me. How I long to throw off 
the mask and twist his neck. Lucy, if you show yourself at that 
balcony, you will produce young Romeo. (Lucy goes to balcony 
through window, R.) He's hiding among the black-currant bushes, 
as if he were one of the gang of housebreakers (enter Bertie, 
limping, window) that everybody about here seems to be afraid of. 

Ber. Pa out ? 

Lucy. Yes, Bertie. 

Ber. {whispering) How is my own ? 

Lucy. Quite well. How's mine? 

Ber. Sprained his ankle dropping from a wall. Ah, Alfred, last 
night there was another house broken into close by. 

Col. {crosses to C.) Never mind the housebreakers, {puts ring on 
Lucy' s finger) 

Lucy. Oh! isn't that pretty, Bertie? 

Col. Lucy, you don't ask me about my journey to London. 

Lucy. (l. C.) Oh, tell us ! 

Col. It turned out exactly as I thought. Mrs. Pinchbeck is the 
lady. Jack Trandham, who has just arrived from New York, and 
who was fleeced by them, has confirmed my suspicions. When I 
was quartered in New Orleans there was a lady who was the talk 
of the whole city. She was the wife of a Chevalier Kopf, a Ger- 
man, who was the luckiest man at cards that ever turned up the 
same ace five times running. Play was deep at the Chevalier's, 
and this loafer, this brother stood in for his share. As for the 
Chevalieress, all the young men in the city were mad about her, 
and they all crowded the Chevalier's rooms. So long as they 
played and had money, so long, they say, the lady smiled. But, 
however, you won't understand me if I tell you more. 

Lucy. But if you never saw her in New Orleans how came you 
to recognise her when you met her here ? 



22 HOME. 

Col. By her photograph, {shows photograph) I've got one, 
formerly the property of poor Jack Trandham ; he paid rather 
dearly for that carte-de-visite. 

Lucy. But now she is called Mrs. Pinchbeck. 

Col. Pinchbeck was the name of her first husband. (Bertie 
takes photograph from Colonel) So when the Chevalier Kopf died, 
or was hanged, or transported, or whatever was his end, his name 
had so European as well as Transatlantic an odor that Pamela — 
my Pamela — ha ! ha ! went back to her first married patronymic. 

Ber. Your Pamela ? What do you mean by your Pamela ? 

Col. Don't you know? {to Lucy) Don't he know? There's a 
good girl to keep a secret. 

Ber. Oh ! Lucy, a secret from me ! 

Col. Hold your tongue, spooney. It was my secret. To rescue 
my father from the fatal fascination of this woman who would be 
a curse and a misery to him, and bring his silver plate with sor- 
row to the pawnbroker's, I knew that I must do something strong 
— fight her with herown weapons, fraud, finesse, artifice, deception, 
and dissimulation. I must open his eyes as if they were oysters, 
with a knife ; so I wrote another letter to him from myself. 

_ er * I From yourself ? 

Col. Yes, Alfred Dorrison — telling him Colonel White was only 
an assumed name ; that I was in reality a wealthy German noble- 
man, who for sentimental reasons tried to pass for a poor soldier, 
that I might find a woman who would love me for myself alone. 
The bait took. Mrs. Pinchbeck swallowed it — hook and all — no 
doubt my father told her. It's funny to see her glancing and 
ogling me. She thinks she is the woman for my money — for my 
title. She is to be the future Grafin von Eberstein ; and when the 
time is ripe, my worthy, though infatuated sire shall see — what he 
shall see. 

Ber. Does Miss Thornhaugh know this plan? 

Col. {changing his manner) Miss Thornhaugh? No. A 
secret's no secret if you tell it to everybody. Why do you 
ask? 

Ber. Because I thought you two were courting. (Lucy laughs) 

Col. [angrily) What! 

Ber. So did Lucy. We said you were both sweet. 

Col. {flushed and annoyed) Oh, you said that, did you? Then 
you are a couple of fools. Why, Dora — I mean Miss Thornhaugh, 
would not think of me. She's only eighteen and I'm six-and- 
thirty. Such a supposition ! How dare you trouble yourself 
about my affairs ! {goes up) 

Lucy, {aside to Bertie) Bertie ! (Bertie crosses to l. c.) It's 
true or he would not be so angry. 



HOME. 23 

Ber. I did not mean to offend you. If you don't think Miss 
Thornhaugh a nice girl {goes over to R.) 

Col. This fellow's an awful idiot, {aside) I shan't like him for a 
brother-in-law. 

Dora, {outside') Lucy ! 

Lucy. Here she is. 

Col. Who ? the Pinchbeck ? 

Lucy. No, Dora. (Dora enters, D. L. 1 E.; she has a music- book 
in her hand) Let's leave 'em alone, poor things, (to Bertie) Let's 
go into the shrubbery, (crosses to R.) 

Ber. Yes, I've got some sweetmeats in my pocket. 

Dora. Going ? 

Lucy. Only for a moment, (aside to Bertie) Alfred looks very 
sheepish. 

Ber. Strange, isn't it? Whatever he can see in that girl, I can- 
not 

Exeunt Lucy and Bertie, talking, by window, r. Dora puts music 
on piano — a long pause. 

Col. I'd always give my eyes to be alone with this girl for five 
minutes, and whenever I am alone with her I haven't a word to 
say for myself, (aloud) That music, Miss Thornhaugh? 

Dora, (at piano) Yes. 

Col. (aside) As if it could be anything else. How stupid of me. 
(aloud) New music ? 

Dora. Yes. 

Col. New laid — I mean, fresh from the country — fresh from 
London, or — yes — I — (Dora sits on music stool at piano — this scene 
is played with great constraint on both sides- — Colonel bends over 
Dora at piano) Going to play any of it now ? 

Dora. No. I must practice it first. I can't play at sight. 

Col. Can't you really ? Don't you believe in — music — at first 
sight. 

Dora drops a music book, Colonel picks it up — Dora tries to 
pick it up — they knock their heads together ; mutual confusion — 
as they rise each has hold of the book. 

D ° * j- I beg your pardon, (both trembling) 

Dora. It's nothing. 
Col. Nothing, quite so. 

Dora sits on music stool — as she does so both leave hold of the book 

and it falls again. 

Dora. I thought you had the book. 

Col. (picking it up) And I thought you had it, and it appears 



24 



HOME. 



that neither of us had it. Ha ! ha ! {aside) Fool that I am ! (DORA 
sits thoughtfully, Colonel bending over her at piano; a pause) 
Won't you play something ? 

Dora. I don't know how to play. 

Col. Oh, well, play the other one. [they resume their attitudes ; a 
pause) The weather has been very warm to-day, has it not? 

Dora. Very. 

Col. Looks like thunder to me. 

Dora. Does it ? 

Col. Are you fond of thunder — I mean fond of music ? I should 
say are you fond of lightning ? (Dora touches keys of piano 
mechanically) Do play something. 

Dora. No, I— I didn't think of what I was doing. What were you 
talking about? 

Col. About ? You — me— no ! About thunder — music— I mean 
lightning. 

Dora. I'm afraid of lightning. 

Col. {interested) Indeed! 

Dora. Singular, we were talking about lightning to-day. 

Col. How odd ! ( Dora plays piano) 

Dora. Mrs. Pinchbeck and myself. She isn't afraid of light- 
ning. 

Dora plays piano each time Mrs. Pinchbeck's name is mentioned 

during this scene. 

Col. I should think she isn't. Lightning is just the sort of thing 
she wouldn't be afraid of. 

Dora. You admire Mrs. Pinchbeck very much, I think ? {drily) 

Col. No, I don't. 

Dora. I thought you did. 

Col. No, it's not Mrs. Pinchbeck whom I admire. 

Dora. No? 

Col. No, the lady I admire {his back touches a music stand ; 

the stand falls) I beg your pardon. 

Dora. That s a nasty music stand ; it's always in the way. 

Col. {picking up stand) I don't know what's the matter with me. 

Dora. Perhaps it's a nervous affection? 

Col. Yes, it's an affection — {aside) — Dora, at the heart. 

Dora. I sometimes have it. 

Col. An affection ? {leaning over, piano) 

Dora. Yes. 

Col. In what region ? About the 

Dora. About Mrs. Pinchbeck. I don't like her. 

Col. Poor woman ! 

Dora. I can't bear her. 

Col. Perhaps you'll say that of me when I'm absent. 



HOME. 25 

Dora. Oh, no. (confused ) 

Col. What do you think of Captain Mountraffe ? 

Dora. Oh, horrid ! (she changes tune io the " Power of Love") 

Col. (whispering) He would not make a nice husband, would 
he? 

Dora. Do you think Mrs. Pinchbeck would make a nice wife ? 

Col. No ! very well as widow, but not so well as wife. If I had 
a wife — all to myself — I mean 

Dora. Yes ? 

Col. I should like a wife — (gasping) if I could have one invented 
especially for me, about your height, with blue eyes and light hair. 
(this description io be altered according to the appearance of the lady 
who plays Dora) And she should wear a white dress, and — and to 
be afraid of lightning, and — and — her name should be Dora. 
(seizes her right hand ) 

Enter Mr. Dorrison, d. l. u. e., down L. 

Mr. D. Colonel White ? (Dora, who has continued the pathetic 
strain of music until the entrance of Mr. Dorrison, commences a 
lively waltz or polka — Colonel assu?nes a convetitional position, a 
little distance from piano) 

Dora. Pretty waltz, isn't it ? (trembling) 

Col. Very. So pleasant and cool. What's it called? 

Dora. " The Lover's Leap." Oh, Mr. Dorrison! 

Mr. D. Dora, my dear, (she ceases playing) Would you be kind 
enough to leave me ? I want to talk to the Colonel. 

Col. (aside) What's coming now? (Dora rises from piano and 
is going off , d. l. u. e. ) You've forgotten the new music. 

Gives her music book — squeezes her hand tinder book — Dora returns 
the pressure, and gives him an assenting look ; exit Dora, D. l. 
U. E. 

Mr. D. (sits L. , of L. table) Colonel, I wish to speak to you ; sit 
down. (Colonel sits on sofa, r. of table, l.) I'm going to tell you 
a secret, although I think you are somewhat — what shall I say ? 
unconfidential with me. Eh, Colonel White ? (with emphasis) Eh, 
Colonel White ? 

Col. (aside) I see ; he's alluding to the German Graf. 

Mr. D. Perhaps I know what I know. And perhaps I know 
more than you think I know. 

Col. (aside) I must pretend to be embarrassed, (feigns confu- 
sion) Oh really, Mr. Dorrison. 

Mr. D. Of course I don't mean to extort from you anything you 
wish to keep secret, but I'm so thoroughly English in my notions 
— English, and not German — not German— (with emphasis) — that 



26 HOME. 

I can't keep a secret — even when it's not my own ! even when 
it's a secret of sentiment, which above all things is a secret I 
would respect. 

Col. {looking down, aside) How one lie does breed another. I 
lied when I called myself Colonel White, now I've to lie again, 
and pretend I'm somebody else. When I come to myself it will 
be a sort of personal, individual resurrection, {aloud) Then — 
then, Mr. Dorrison, you know who I am ? 

Mr. D. 1 do. 

Col. May I ask how ? 

Mr. D. I will be candid. I have received a letter from my dear 
boy. 

Col. From Alfred ? 

Mr. D. Yes. And now, my dear Count — I should say my dear 
Colonel 

Col. Whichever you please. It's quite indifferent to me. 

Mr. D. Which shall we say then — Count or Colonel? 

Col. Take your choice, {aside) I feel such a double-distilled, 
double-breasted, double-barrelled liar, that it doesn't matter who I 
am. 

Mr. D. However, though you won't confide in me, I will confide 
in you. You are a man of high feeling and sentiment, and as 
such will understand me. You are aware I am about to marry 
Mrs. Pinchbeck? (Colonel assents) I am sixty-three years of 
age. 

Col. Is not that rather young? I mean isn't Mrs. Pinchbeck 
rather younger? 

Mr. D. She is about — um — twenty-five. Yes. Perhaps you 
think me an old fool ? 

Col. Oh, no. 

Mr. D. {shaking hands) I was sure you would understand 
me. Though past sixty, I am as young constitutionally as most 
men of forty. 

Col. Your daughter will have a 

Mr. D. A mother — a mother. I have considered that point, 
and consulted my daughter's interests in the step I have resolved 
on. 

Col. In the stepmother you have resolved on 

Mr. D. Step, not stepmother. But it was not to speak of my 
future wife, or my daughter, that I sought this interview with your 
lordship. 

Col. {with generous shame) My lordship ? 

Mr. D. It was not to speak of them. 

Col. Of whom then ? 

Mr. D. Of my son. 

Col. Of your son ? 

Mr. D. Of Alfred. Before he left his home, though he was 



HOME. 27 

wild, I was harsh. I should have remembered he was but a boy ; 
but he was a fine fellow — a splendid nature. Throughout all his 
escapades he never once deceived me ; he was always above 
deception. He never told me a lie. A noble quality, eh, 
Count? 

Col. Very. 

Mr. D. My second marriage will not injure him. I wish you to 
tell him so, if you will do me that favor. I do not wish to break 
the news of my wedding, or to tell him of the disposition of my 
property. I had, I admit, disinherited him. I was wrong, I was 
unjust. After the wedding I shall remake my will thus — At my 
death, one-third of what I have to my daughter, one-third to my 
wife, the remainder to my son. {affected) My boy shall find that 
his father has not forgotten him. [apause) Will you let him know 
this, Count — I should say Colonel ? 

Col. I will, [both rise) 

Mr. D. Thanks! Excuse me now, fori am very busy. Indeed, 
the wedding is to take place this week. Break the mat- 
ter gently to Alfred ; and your secret, Count von Eberstein, is safe 
with me. I have not breathed it to a soul, not even to Pamela ; 
[shaking hands) if you have anything to suggest [going up) I 
shall be in my study for the next hour. 

Exit, Mr. Dorrison, d. l. u. e. 

Col. [affected) Poor old gov, to think of me when I was so far 
away under his own roof; to find no one in the world but me, his 
son, to confide in, when I am stealing away the heart of the 
woman he adores. Is this manly ? Whom am I fighting? Who 
is my antagonist? A woman, and a woman who at least pretends 
to care for me. I have serious misgivings. Then, again, if I retired, 
if I left the field, and let my father marry her — marry her — she would 
be Lucy's stepmother. My sister Lucy in her power ; perhaps to 
be sacrificed to that drunken cad, Mountrafte. For once my 
father's wife, who can judge the limits of her influence over him ? 
For she is fascinating ! even I feel that as I make sham love to 
her [looks at his mother s picture over fireplace) No, she shall 
never reign queen of this hearth, where you were once the sun and 
centre. No shrinking. It's my duty. I must do it ! but how I 
hate fighting in ambuscade. I shall be delighted to get out again 
into the open — (enter Mrs. Pinchbeck, a book in her hand, at 
window, r.) What, the enemy — her I love— the adored one — her I 
am about to take from my father, never to make my own. 

This scene to be played with intense sentimentality \ 

Mrs. P. [sighing) Ah! you are here! [advancing to table, r.) 
I was very wrong to come. Why did you ever enter this house to 
disturb my peace of mind ? I was happy till I saw you. 



28 HOME. 

Col. Pamela ! 

Mrs. P. John ! [shuddering) Oh, I am very wrong. 

Col. Is it wrong to love as we do ? If so, then indeed I am very- 
guilty. What are you reading? 

Mrs. P. Tennyson. 

Col. What poem ? 

Mrs. P. "The Lord of Burleigh." 

Col. I don't know it. 

Mrs. P. No! It's a wonderful story and a true one. A Lord 
Burleigh passed himself off for a poor landscape painter, and in 
that guise won the affections of a village maiden. His reason for 
pretending to be poor was that, disgusted, with the attentions he 
received from match-making mammas and daughters trying for a 
coronet, he wished to be loved for himself alone, [watching the 
effect of her words) 

Col. [apparently interested) Indeed ! 

Mrs. P. Noble, was it not ? 

Col. Y-e-s. 

Mrs. P. But I cannot believe that any man could be so good. 
[her eyes raised) 

Col. [taking her hand) Can you not? 

Mrs. P. No. [takes book up) 'Tis a creation of the poets. He 
does not exist. 

Col. [with a grand air) Right! he does not exist. 

Mrs. P. No? 

Col. No. 

Mrs. P. No. 

Col. No ! I thought you said the story was true ! 

Mrs. P. Oh, how I could love such a man ! 

Col. Could you if he existed? 

Mrs. P. I could work for him, I could die for him. [looks round 
for chair, Colonel gets one) Oh! [sighing; both sit) 

Col. Oh ! [sighing) What does the poem say ? That is, what 
does the lady say? For every lady is a poem unpublished — I 
mean unmarried. 

Mrs. P. " She " — that is the village maiden — replies to Lord 
Burleigh 



"Replies in accents fainter — 

' There is none I love like thee.' 
He is but a landscape painter, 
And a village maiden she." 

Beautiful, is it not? 

Col. Delicious! To be a landscape painter, and poor! going 
on tick for your colors, and all that. Delightful ! Go on. 

Mrs. P. Do you wish it ? 



HOME. 

Col. Yes. 

Mrs. P. Anything to please you — 



2 9 



" I can make no marriage present, 
Little can I give my wife ! 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 
And I love thee more than life." 

Oh ! {sighing) Isn't that charming ? 

Col. Charming ! Not to be able to make a marriage present is 
so refreshing. 

Mrs. P. Then he takes her to the castle, and tells her he is lord 
of all. 

" Not a lord in all the county 
Is so great a lord as he." 

Col. What does the lady say to that? {reads) 

" All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin, 
As it were with shame she blushes 
And her spirit changed within." 

Mrs. P. Oh! it's too much; the poem agitates me to that 
degree — — 
Col. {reads) 

"Then her countenance all over 
Pale again as death did prove, 
But he clasped {moves his chair close to Mrs. Pinch- 
beck and clasps her) her like a lover, 
And he cheered her soul with love." 

Now you read, Pamela. 

Mrs. P. "So she strove against her weakness, 
Though at times her spirit sank. 
Shaped her heart, with woman's meekness, 
To all duties of her rank.'' 

Col. Poor creature ! To be made a lady, and to suffer it with 
such angelic sweetness ! But I believe there are many women who 
could do the same. 

Mrs. P. If they loved. 

Col. If they loved, of course. 

Mrs. P. Oh, I understand her feelings. Listen ! 

" And she murmured, Oh that he 

Were once more that landscape painter 
Which did win my heart from me." {weeps) 



30 HOME. 

Col. [aside) What a lovely humbug ! It's worth while crossing 
the Atlantic to contemplate her. 

Mrs. P. What is greatness when compared to love ? What is 
wealth — power ? 

Col. Nothing. 

Mrs. P. I should have loved him better as a landscape-painter. 

Col. [quickly) Pamela, could you love me ? 

Mrs. P. Oh, John ! [rises and sits on ottoman; he sits beside her 
holding her hand all the time) 

Col. I am but a poor soldier, but what of that ? Pamela, love 
is real wealth. Love is like huge diamonds, too priceless to be 
bought. What are the smaller cares of this small world so that we 
are together? What is the cramped, narrowed worldling's creed 
compared to the passion, the devotion that consumes me? 

Mrs. P. John, you — alarm — you 

Col. Let us leave this wretched region of arithmetic, this elysium 
of intellects that recognize as the only sublime truth the fact that 
two and two are four, and seek some less commercial sky. Pamela, 
when I look in your eyes, when I have your hand clasped in mine, 
when I feel your breath flicker and thicken on my face, you trans- 
port me from myself. I feel that I could fly with you to some high 
Alpine eyrie, and there, amid the snow-capped mountains closed 
in by the clouds, live and die with thee ; that I could quit this 
common, vulgar earth, and floating upon a tiny boat, out upon an 
unknown sea, dwell amid the purple waves, uncheered by any 
sight or sound but thee ; that, locked in your arms, I could plunge 
from off a rock into the air, and, as we sank to certain death, count 
only the treasured seconds that your heart echoed its last beats to 
mine ! Pamela ! 

Mrs. P. Colonel White, you terrify me. [feigning alarm) 

Col. I know I do. 

Enter Mr. Dorrison, d. l. u. e.. and Lucy and Dora, unobserved 
by Colonel and Mrs. Pinchbeck. 

Col. Say, is my passion returned ? 

Mrs. P. [coquetting, her hands over her face) No! no! no! (Mr. 
Dorrison appears relieved ) 

Col. Don't say no charming — charming creature. I know you 
are engaged to Mr. Dorrison. 

Mrs. P. Yes, remember that. 

Col. I do remember it. 

Mr. D. Apparently not, sir. [striking table) 

Col. [aside) Oh, the governor. 

Mrs. P. Oh, heavens ! 

Mr. D. Mrs. Pinchbeck, you have behaved with truth and 
honor, as I knew you would. You reminded my treacherous guest 
— my son's friend with a false name — of the bond between us. 



HOME. 3 1 

Mrs. P, (R., aside) What shall I do? 

Mr. D. (c, aside to her) Bless you, my darling! I have more 
faith in you than ever, [crosses to Mrs. Pinchbeck, and brings her 
L. C. — to Colonel) For the Count von Eberstein 1 have no words. 
He will quit this roof to-morrow, and will carry with him the con- 
tempt of the man he has endeavored to wrong so greatly, in addi- 
tion to the sting of failure. 

Enter Servant who lights gas over fire-place — lights up. 

Dora, [after a pause) The gallant Count, or Colonel, or courier 
in his master's clothes, whichever he may be, appears to fail in 
everything he undertakes. He has endeavored to supplant you, 
Mr. Dorrison. He has not succeeded. He has endeavored to 
make you, Mrs. Pinchbeck, forget your plighted faith, and he has 
not succeeded. He has dared, too, to pay his easily obtained 
addresses to me, and he has not succeeded, [surprise of Mr. Dor- 
rison) 

Mrs. P. What's that? 

Mr. D. George! [to Servant) take Colonel White's portman- 
teau to the station in the morning, (exit Servant, d. l. u. e.) I 
trust that Colonel the Graf von Eberstein White will leave the 
house with a perfect conviction of the opinions entertained of him. 
Our sense of self-respect will not suffer us to remain longer in this 
room. Come, my love, [to Mrs. Pinchbeck, taking her arm — 
exeunt Mr. Dorrison, Mrs. Pinchbeck, and Dora, Mrs. Pinch- 
beck undecided in manner, Dora contemptuous, d. l. u. e.) 

Lucy, [crosses to Colonel) Alfred ! 

Dora, [after exit, outside) Lucy ! (Lucy runs off, D. L. u. E. ) 

Col. [after pause) I'll never tell another lie as long as I live. 
[rain and wind outside) And this is the end of my fine scheme for 
opening my father's eyes, and for preventing this woman from 
taking my mother's place on this hearthstone. I am ordered out. 
My host accuses me of endeavoring to undermine the affections of 
the woman he is about to make his wife. The woman herself, 
who encourages my attentions, whose obvious blandishments gave 
me the idea of making her exhibit herself in her true colors, repu- 
diates me, and Dora thinks me false. My failure is complete, and 
it is for this I crossed the Atlantic. This is my welcome home. I 
am the prodigal son whom they order off the premises, and set the 
dogs at. [going up) I must leave this, [steel blue lightning ; look- 
ing at window) Lord, what a night ! What matters a wet jacket? 
I can walk to the " Nag's head," and sit there till the mail train 
passes, [pauses) And I must leave her and my sister Lucy to the 
power of this woman, and to the odious attentions of that rascal 
brother. It's hard to part from him without one kick. I'll write 
to Lucy to bid her good-bye, to Dora telling her all, and to my 



32 HOME. 

father telling him, [bitterly, crosses to table) what were my inten- 
tions towards the lady, [searching) Is there any paper? [light- 
ning) How the lightning flares ; but it's not so blinding as a woman's 
eyes, not so destructive as a woman's tongue, [sits to write at 
table, L.) I can't write — I'll send to them, [rising) What if 1 go to 
my father's room, and tell him who I am? He would only curse 
me as his rival. He would believe the woman, and order me 
from the house again. Again ! Sixteen years ago I stood on this 
very spot, and took a last look, as I then thought, at home. Home ! 
[looking at picture over fireplace) This is not my home now. 
Good-bye, England. I'll put out the gas and then I'll put out 
myself, [turns out one gas light on mantle shelf ') I won't unlock 
the doors, it would disturb them. I can climb over the garden 
wall. Good-bye, [loooking at his mothers picture) this time for 
ever, [turns out the other gaslight) 

Rain ceases ; stage dark — as he nears window, R. , a strong flash of 
blue lightning — Lucy appears at window, R., her dress over 
her head. 

Lucy. Alfred ! [in a whisper at window) 

Col. Yes, dear. 

Lucy. You haven't gone away then ? I know you've been 
thinking of it. 

Col. My darling ! 

Lucy. Oh, don't kiss me, it's such a waste. I've brought some- 
body with me. 

Col. Whom? 

Lucy. Dora. 

Col. Dora? 

Lucy. Yes ; we were talking in our room, and I told her all and 
why we had kept the secret from her. 

Col. But why come through the rain, when 

Lucy. Dora would come to ask you to forgive her, and if we 
hadn't gone out by the door downstairs we should have had to 
pass pa's bedroom. 

Lightning — Dora enters window R., her dress over her head. 

Col. I see. 

Dora, [crossing to him) Can you forgive me ? 
Lucy. Yes, forgive her, and while you are forgiving her, I won't 
look. I'm not afraid of lightning, [goes to window) 

Colonel kisses Dora — a vivid flash of lightning. 

Lucy, [alarmed, runs to Colonel) Alfred! 
Col. What? 



HOME. 33 

Lucy. A figure at the window, coming in. Perhaps a house- 
breaker. ( Lucy and Dora get c . ) 
Col. A housebreaker ? 
Lucy. I think so. 
Mrs. P. (at window, L.) John ! 

Colonel motions the two girls back — they retire at back of piano and 

crouch down. 

Col. Mrs. Pinchbeck ! 

Mrs. Pinchbeck enters window, dressed for a journey. 

Mrs. P. I have crept through the rain to tell you I am yours and 
yours only. Just now I was tongue-tied. I could not speak with 
your eyes upon me, for I felt that I had behaved badly to him. 
When you leave this house, I am ready to accompany you — to- 
morrow — to-night — now — this instant — John, my own, first, fondest 
love, I am by your side! {shot heard without— girls shriek) 

Col. What's that? 

Mrs. P. Those girls here ? 

Bertie dashes on through window, R., an umbrella in his hand, all 
over mud ; falls on ottoman, R. 

Ber. Help! 

Lucy. Bertie ! 

Col. What's the matter? 

Ber. I don't know. As I was watching Lucy's window from the 
garden, somebody fired something ; I fell down and hurt myself, 
and ran in here, (goes up, R. c.) 

Enter Mountraffe, d. l. I E., in a gorgeous dressing-gown and 
cap ; he carries a lighted candle — stage light — Mr. Dorrison 
enters window R., a double barrelled gun in his hand) 

Mount, (frightened) Pm afraid the housebreakers have — there's 
going to be a row ! 

Exit, D. L. I E. ; leaves candle, L., on table — lights half up. 

Mr. D. (to Mrs. Pinchbeck) I was watching the lightning from 
my window when I saw you cross the garden. You came after 
the man you love. I was about to follow, when another flash 
showed me the figure of a man upon the wall. I took my gun. 
loaded it, and went down, for I thought it was a robber. To-night 
I have thieves within my walls, and not without. I fired in the 
air to frighten the thief, and followed him in here, where it seems 
I am de trop. 



34 HOME. 

Lucy, [in tears, up stage, R.) You've nearly killed poor Bertie. 

Mr. D. Bertie ! Was it he? He's more frightened than hurt. 

Ber. I don't know whether I'm hurt or not. 

Mr. D. [to Mrs. Pinchbeck) You, madam, will find a carriage 
ready to convey you to the station early in the morning. 

Mrs. P. [coolly, seated on otlo?nan, R. ) I am glad of it. My heart 
has spoken, and declared Colonel White to be its lord and master. 
Seek some woman of your own age. 

Mr. D. [to Colonel) For you who introduced yourself by a lie 
— for I believe your letters from my son to be but forgeries — are 
you to leave this house unpunished and unscathed ? Viper! I 
am an old man [putting down gun) but I have strength to resent 
the outrage, [rushing at Colonel ; he is restrained by Lucy) Out 
of my house, you dog ! 

Lucy. Father! 

Col. For Heaven's sake ! I am Alfred your son ! 

Mrs. Pinchbeck rises thunderstruck. Picture. 
END OF ACT II. 



ACT III. 



A LAPSE OF TWELVE HOURS. 



Scene. — As before — Bertie discovered lying on sofa — Lucy feeding 

him with jelly. 

Lucy. Feel better, Bertie ? 

Ber. Yes, dear. 

Lucy. It's very nice being ill in the house, and having me to 
wait on you, isn't it? 

Ber. [eating jelly) Delicious ! 

Lucy. I do quite enjoy your illness. 

Ber. So do I. [eating more jelly) 

Lucy. It's so pleasant to wait on you. 

Ber. Is it really ? 

Lucy. The sun is out and so is the jelly, and it is quite dry on 
the gravel. Do you think you could get up and sit in the garden? 
[rises and puts chair tinder piano) 

Ber. I think I could, if you would let me lean on you. 

Colonel enters, d. l. u. e., with pistol case and horsewhip. 
Col. [down L.) Well, Bertie, how goes it ? 




HOME. 35 

Lucy. Oh, better, he hasn't hurt himself this half-hour. 

Ber. No, every inch of me is bruises, but there are no bones 
broken. 

Col. You are a dreadful fellow to tumble down, (crosses, R.) and 
hurt yourself. You must marry him at once, Lucy, or there'll be 
none of him left, (puts pistol case on table, R.) 

Lucy. I assure you I don't like his getting chipped in this way. 

Col. You must turn the side that's broken to the wall. 

Lucy. Oh, Alfred ! (seeing the pistol case) Is that another present 
for me ? 

Col. (opens case) No, it's something to frighten brother Pinch- 
beck. Take him away. For I expect his sister here directly. 

Lucy. Is she going to leave at once ? 

Col. I don't know. 

Ber. (getting up with difficulty, very lame, leaning on stick) I 
should like to kick Captain Mountraffe before he goes. 

Col. That is a pleasure I propose myself. 

Lucy. But what's going to be done, Alfred? 

Col. I don't know, we shall see. I have a carte blanche from 
the governor to do as I think best. 

Lucy. Is papa quite cured ? 

Col. He will be after amputation. Here comes the limb I'm to 
lop off ; so go. (they look off, l. ) 

Lucy. Can you walk, my Bertie ? 

Ber. (with stick, leaning on Lucy) Give me your arm, your 
waist, and your shoulders, and I think I can. 

Col. He knows all about it. Run away. 

Exeunt Bertie and Lucy, window R. , into garden — at the same 
time enter Mrs. Pinchbeck, d. l. i e.; she closes door ; a pause. 

Col. Well, Mrs. Pinchbeck, are your boxes packed ? 

Mrs. P. No. Are yours? 

Col. What do you mean ? 

Mrs. P. That I do not see why I should quit this roof because 
your father's son introduced himself beneath it under a false name. 

Col. But you accepted my father's addresses and then 

Mrs. P. Accepted yours. True ; I did. I thought you were a 
man of rank and fortune. I was mistaken. You were an impostor, 
a nobody. I was dazzled by the prospect of a coronet. I am not 
an angel, (sits L. of table, L. ) 

Col. I agree with you. You're not. 

Mrs. P. And I fell into the snare. It's not the first time that 
man has lied and a woman has believed him. 

Col. Nor the first time a woman has baited the trap, and a man 
has fallen into it. 

Mrs. P. Men are so readv to fall. 



36 HOME. 

Col. You're thinking of Eve who tempted Adam. 

Mrs. P. No. I'm thinking of the serpent who tempted Eve. 

Col. But the serpent was the devil. 

Mrs. P. And the devil is the abstract resemblance of man. What 
chance had Eve against serpent, devil, and man combined ? 

Col. [aside] She's clever. 

Mrs. P. Let me congratulate you on your victory over an old 
man, your father, and the woman you professed to love. Treachery 
and deceit are the arms that men use. 

Col. My duel was with you, and I fought you with the weapons 
you were best skilled in. 

Mrs. P. Your victory proves you an accomplished professor. 

Col. I have saved my father. 

Mrs. P. Saved him? From what? [rises) From the happiness 
he promised himself for the remainder of his days ? [advancing to 
Colonel) I should have made him a good wife ; for I am weary 
of running about the world, and I should have been grateful to the 
hand that succored me. If I should not have been happy, I 
should have been at least contented, and I could have smoothed 
my aged husband's path through life, as only a clever woman can. 

Col. You are fortunate in possessing so admirable an opinion of 
yourself. I am sorry for your loss, for the house is pleasant, and 
my father is rich. 

Mrs. P. Which accounts for his prodigal son's return. You 
came back to save your inheritance ? 

Col. And to save my father giving me a step-mother I had heard 
so much of in America. 

Mrs. P. Do you wish to insult me ? 

Col. No! only to induce you to pack up. 

Mrs. P. Can't I insult you ? 

Col. No. 

Mrs. P. Why not ? 

Col. Because you're a woman, and I acknowledge the superi- 
ority of your sex over yourself. 

Enter MOUNTRAFFE, D. L. U. E. 

Mount. Pamela! [down C.) 

Col. [seeing him, aside) Ah, this is a very different affair. I 
needn't keep my temper now. [after a pause) I won't. 

Mount, [crosses to Colonel) I've been looking for you. 

Col. I'm at your service, Captain. You've been in the army. 
Pistols — swords — at your pleasure, [goes to R. of table, R.) 

Mount. I am not blood-thirsty. 

Col. I am. [showing pistols in case on table, r. ) So if you 

Mount, [aside) Cold-blooded ruffian ! 

Col. I'll fight you with pleasure. I'd as lief shoot a blackguard 
as a gentleman. Will you ? [takes up pistol-case, then going off, R.) 



HOME. 37 

Mount. No. 

Col. Then apologize. 

Mount. I don't mind admitting I'm wrong ; but no gentleman 
ever apologizes. 

Col. Ah, I see you want damages. 

Mount. Just so. 

Mrs. P. [aside to Mountraffe) No ! I won't accept a farthing. 

Mount. I will, [crosses to Mrs. Pinchbeck) Don't be a fool, [to 
Colonel) To come to business. You don't wish my sister to 
marry your father ? 

Col. I don't. 

Mount. And you don't wish to marry her yourself? 

Col. Still less. 

Mrs. P. How he despises me ! 

Mount. How much will you give us to go ? 

Col. I see ; your sister requires a dowry ? 

Mrs. P. No ! [rising) 

Mount, [aside to Mrs. Pinchbeck) Shut up ! 

Col. Name you terms. 

Mrs. P. Such humiliation ! [sits) 

Col. Anticipating your decision I have brought with me a blank 
check, [producing it, and sitting at table, l.) 

Mount, [sitting down opposite to Colonel) Ah ! this is busi- 
ness. 

Col. Don't sit down in my presence. (Mountraffe rises') 
What shall we say for blighted hopes, broken hearts, damaged 
prospects, &c, &c, &c? How much? 

Mount. Um ! The match was a good one, and you're anxious 
to get rid of us. Say £500. 

Col. [nodding assent) Five 

Mount, [aside) I wonder if he would have given more, [aloud) I 
mean £500 for damages. Then there's my sister's trousseau. 
She would have had a trousseau, you know, [goes to Mrs. Pinch- 
beck) 

Mrs. P. (r. , aside) Oh, the meanness! [to Mountaffe) Spare 
me ! 

Mount. Not a pair of gloves, [crosses back to Colonel) For the 
trousseau, say £200. 

Col. Two. [to Mrs. Pinchbeck) Will £200 be sufficient, 
madam ? 

Mrs. P. [aside) The torture ! 

Col. Five and two, seven. Is there anything else? 

Mount. Well, if you like to stand a suit of wedding clothes for 
me. 

Col. How much ? 

Mount. Say a twenty-pun note. 

Col. £720. [writes check and is about to cross it) 



38 HOME. 

Mount. Don't cross it, it will be no use to me if you do. 

Col. There is the check, you must give me a receipt, [rises, lays 
check on table) I've brought a stamp so that my father may know 
that this affair is settled, and that you are paid. 

Mount, [sitting down after looking at Colonel for perm iss ion to 
do so) With pleasure. 

Col. Pardon me ; the lady is of age, and she is supposed to be 
the injured party. 1 shall require her signature. 

Mount, [writes) Pleasure. Received £720 — no £700, the £20 
is for me — £700 in consideration of which I, Pamela Pinchbeck, 
hereby give up all claims to the damages arising from an action 
for breach of promise of marriage already commenced by me — 
we'd better put it that way — against Mr. Alfred Dorrison, sen., 
and hereby engage not to bring the aforesaid action. To-day, the 
— um. (rises) Now, Pamela, sign that, cross the stamp there. 
(crosses to l. ) 

Mrs. P. (crossing to table r.) Where's the check? (Colonel 
gives it her) 

Col. What a nature ! . 

Mrs. P. And the receipt ? 

Col. Here, (bending over table) if you will kindly (Mrs. 

Pinchbeck tears up receipt and check. 

Enter Mr. Dorrison and Dora, d. l. u. e. ; Lucy enters window, 
R., and sits on ottoman, R. 

Mount. What are you about ? 

Mrs. P. To buy back my self-respect, and to get rid of you. 

Col. (aside) What a woman ! 

Mount. Make out another check, Colonel ; it's a mere freak of 
temper. The fact is she's fallen in love with you — really — no 
swindle — on the square, (sits on sofa) 

Mrs. P. Well, I avow it. I do love you, as much as I despise 
him. I avow it, because I am about to leave you now for ever. 
At first I believed myself to be attached to you by the prospect of 
your wealth and greatness ; but I was the dupe of my own world- 
liness, and I loved you for yourself alone. (Lucy and Dora 
exchange looks) This confession is my punishment. I am not all to 
blame. I never knew a mother's love or guidance. From child- 
hood I have had to look to him (signifying Mountraffk) for protec- 
tion and counsel. He married me when I was quite a child to an 
old man, bad as himself ; and when he died, to an adventurer, 
who broke my heart at the same time that he excited my vanity. 
Since the death of my second husband, he has taught me that my 
duty in life was to find a third, a wealthy victim. I am but a 
woman, and I have been schooled into the belief that all the world 
was bad. This home, your father's kindness, your sister's gentle- 



HOME. 39 

ness, and this young lady's goodness, have taught me better. I 
have one talent, music ; and that will enable me to live away from 
this bad silly man, whom I now renounce .for ever. Forgive me 
for the evil I might have worked you. If ever you should hear of 
me, you will know that my repentance is sincere. Farewell. 
[going up) 

Col. Madam, your words have penetrated me deeply, me and 
mine, [pointing to Dorrison, &*c.) Pardon the intemperance of 
my language. I did not then know you. I recognize in you not 
only a good woman, but a noble heart. Lucy, my love, give your 
hand to this lady, [she does so) whose surroundings through life 
have not been able to stamp out her native nobility of character. 
[with deep respect Dora crosses to Mrs. Pinchbeck, shakes hands 
with her, then goes back to l. ; Mrs. Pinchbeck very much affected ) 
I trust that you will permit my sister and me to accompany you in 
the carriage. In leaving us you leave all friends, who can never 
cease to regard you, and all that concerns you, with the deepest 
interest. 

Mr. D. Give me your hand at parting, [shakes hands with Mrs. 
Pinchbeck) If I have anything to forgive, it is forgiven freely. 
Good-bye, and Heaven bless you. 

Mrs. Pinchbeck, deeply affected, takes off locket fro7n her neck, 
and puts it on piano, then goes off, D. L. u. e. 

Mount, [rising and going up) That's a woman! After all that I 
have done for her. By 

He is going to pick up locket — Colonel coughs and taps pistol-case 
as Mountraffe exits, d. l. u. E — Bertie enters window, R. 

Col. Yes, a real woman, who can't help being right-minded 
even when she's wrong. (Bertie comes down, R.) 

Mr. D. I'm glad they're gone. Forgive me, my dear boy and 
girl, I feel heartily ashamed of myself. Alfred, how can I return 
the service you have rendered me ? 

Col. Very easily, father. By speaking favorably of me to this 
young lady's parents. 

Mr. D. What, Dora ! Lucy has told me all about it. 

Col. Has she? Then how can I return the service she rendered 
me ? 

Lucy. By speaking favorably of me to this young lady's parent. 
[points to herself) 

Mr. D. Oh, about Bertie ? 

Col. Yes, of course. You see Lucy has seen him, and he has 
seen Lucy ; to be sure, they have neither seen anybody else, and 
that may account for it. 

Mr. D. We'll see about it some years hence. 



40- HOME. 

Col. Yes, some years hence ; eighteen or twenty. 

Ber. Eighteen or twenty ! Don't keep us so long, Mr. Dorrison, 
for I know nothing will cure me of the habit of hurting myself 
except getting married. 

Col. He considers marriage a cure for sprains. 

Mr. D. But at your age ! Do you think you are in earnest ? 

Col. Oh, very much in earnest. He is just the age to be in 
earnest — for a short time. 

Ber. I love Lucy till I'm black and blue. 

Col. Lucy, you will marry a small walking rainbow. 

Mr. D. (to Colonel) And you're sure you won't regret Mrs. 
Pinchbeck? ( Bertie goes up with Lucy, who sits at piano) 

Col. No, only her misfortunes. 

Mr. D. Nor her brother? (smiling) 

Col. That's her greatest misfortune ; but happiness does not 
consist in brothers. 

Mr. D. In what then ? 

Col. In sisters, wives, and mothers, but not in step-mothers. 

Mr. D. But, Alfred, I thought you considered marriage such a 
foolish thing. 

Col. Very foolish for fathers, but an excellent thing for sons. 

Mr. D. There seems to be a deal of love about us. (sits, R. c.) 

Col. Yes, we're an affectionate family, (all sit except Bertie) 

Mr. D. And if all goes well when do you expect to marry ? 

Col. When? Immediately, (to Dora) With your kind permis- 
sion. 

Mr. D. And where do you intend to pass your honeymoon ? 

Dora. On the Atlantic ? 

Col. No. 

Dora. In what place, then? 

Col. In what place? (Lucy begins to play " Home t Sweet Home") 
Home! (looking at picture, then at Dora) 

PICTURE. 
CURTAIN. 




NEW PLAYS. 



PRICE, 15 CENTS EACH. 

MURDER WILL OUT. A farce in one act, for six female characters, by L. M. 
Elwyn. Time of playing, 30 minutes. A breezy and < ffective farce, in which 
half a dozen bright girls can delight an audience with half an hour of innocent 
fun. Grandmother Stiles, and her demure but frolicsome grand-daughter, are 
excellent characters ; Dinah, the colored cook, is amusing, and Bridget W Flaherty 
is a funny Irish girl — her quarrels with Dinah being exceedingly laughable. The 
attempts of Lena and her merry friends, May and Minnie, to hoodwink the old 
lady, and their final exposure, will keep the audience in a roar of laughter. 

OLD CRONIES. A comedietta in one act, for two male characters, by S. Theyri 
Smith. Time of playing, 30 minutes. This is an unusually bright and clever 
little play, in which a couple of comedians can furnish a half-hour of pure, 
unrestricted fun. Dr. Jacks, tie mild-mannered old gentleman, is in happy 
contrast with Capt. Pigeon, a bluff, gruff and noisy old sea officer. Both are 
excruciatingly funny, and their sorrowful attempt to write a joint-stock love 
letter is one of the richest bits of humor ever presented. Old Cronies will prove 
a most acceptable afterpiece, and, if at all well done, can not fail to send the 
audience home in good humor. 

APRIL FOOLS. A farce in one act, for three male characters, by W. F. Chap- 
man. Time of playing, 30 minutes. For a half-hour of roaring fun this farce has 
few equals. It is brisk, bright, and full of highly humorous situations. The 
characters are exceedingly well drawn — the nervous Mr. Dunnbroiune forming a 
marked contrast to the loud James Smith, and both differing widely from the 
sad and sorrowful Joseph Smith. Each imagines that the others are foolish, 
crazy or drunk. There are laughable blunders and side-splitting complications. 
Misunderstandings follow one another in rapid succession, and the mystery grows 
deeper and still deeper. Finally, when everybody gets into a hopeless tangle, it 
is discovered that ail three are victims of a practical joker, who has made them 
"April Fools." 

MISS MADCAP. A comedietta in one act, by Charles Townse.nd, for two male 
and one female characters. Time of playing, 20 minutes. This bright and 
breezy little play sparkles like champagne, and is just the thing for a curtain- 
raiser or an afterpiece. The story is well told, and the characters are well drawn. 
The youth who pretends to be a " tough," the young man who pretends to be a 
"dude," and the young lady who pretends to be a " tomboy," all give scope for 
excellent acting. The piece has been played with pronounced success under the 
author's management. 

THE DARKEY WOOD DEALER. A farce in one act, by Charles Townsend, 
for two male and one female characters. Time of playing, 20 minutes. A 
ro 'ring farce in this author's happiest vein, totally unlike the ordinary "Ethi- 
opian" plays. Each character is first-class. The "wood-dealer," beyond doubt, 
is one of the best negro parts on the stage. The Deacon is a highly-amusing 
old man, and Mrs. Deacon (this part may be played by a young man), a tremen- 
dous hit as a "strong-minded" female. This farce is certain to keep an audience 
in a ro3r, and has proved a sure hit as played under the author's management. 

AN OLD PLANTATION NIGHT. 

PRICE, 25 CENTS. 

A musical and dramatic entertainment for four male and lour female characters, 
forming a double quartet. This is not a negro minstrel show, contains no boisterous 
jokes nor conundrums, and is without a vestige of "Tambo" or " Bones," or the 
conventional stage darkey. It is a simple but vivid representation of life u in de 
quarters," embellished with song and story illustrating some of the quaint super- 
stitions and frolicsome merry-makings of the mellow-voiced race. Thoroughly 
bright throughout, the text is uncommonly well written, and the succession of inci- 
dents skilfully contrived, while its transitions from grave to gay can be made wonder- 
fully effective by intelligent actors. The scene, a simple interior, can be arranged on 
any platform without set scenery; some old garments and a little discarded finery 
will suffice for the costumes ; the " properties " are few and simple, and the music is 
within the capacity of fairly good voices, such as any ordinary church choir contains. 
Wholly novel in conception, and singularly clever in :>rrangement, An Old Planta- 
tion Night will prove highly acceptable to audiences of all kinds in church, school, 
lyceum, or parlor. 

Synopsis: Uncle 'Rastus and Thomas Jefferson. — " Befo 1 de Wah." — "Swing 
Low. Sweet Chariot." — An influx of visitors. — Aunt Marthy's Story of the little 
possum. — The rabbit cross. — Limber Jim. — The Sunflower Song. — The stylishness of 
some folks.— The little white g~at on the mountain — "The Gospel Train." — Polly 
and the screech-owl. — A husking bee. — The Corn Song. — Little Aaron's battlements. 
— Old Da n Tucker. 

JEST" Copies of the above will be mailed, post-paid, to any address, on receipt 
of the specified prices. ^Jgrft 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. 



UNCLE TOM'S CABIN (NEW VERSION.) 

A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS, BY CIIAS. TOWN SEND. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Seven male, five female characters (some of the characters play two parts). 
Time of playing, 2% hours. This is a new acting edition of a prime old favorite, 
so ,-implified in the stage-setting as to be easily represented by dramatic clubs and 
travelling companies with limited scenery. Uncle Tom's Cabin is a play that never 
grows old ; being pure and faultless, it commands the praise of the pulpit and sup- 
port of the press, while it enlists the favor of all Christians and heads of families. It 
will draw hundreds where other plays draw dozens, and therefore is sure to fill any hal . 

Synopsis of Incidents : Act I. — Scene I. —The Shelby plantation in Kentucky. — 
George and Eliza. — The curse of Slavery. — The resolve. — Off for Canada. — "I won't 
be taken — I'll die first." — Shelby snd Haley. — Uncle Tom and Harry must be sold. — 
The poor mother. — "Sell my boy!" — The faithful slave. Scene II. — Gumption 
Cute. — " By Gum !" — Marks, the lawyer. — A mad Yankee. — George in disguise. — A 
friend in need. — The human bloodhounds. — The escape. — " Hooray fer old Var- 
mount ! " 

Act II. — St. Clare's elegant home. — The fretful wife. — The arrival. — Little Eva.— 
Aunt Ophelia and Topsy — " O, Gollj' ! I'se so wicked | " — St. Clare's opinion. — 
" Benighted innocence." — The stolen gloves. — Topsy in her glory. 

Act III. — The angel child. — Tom and St. Clare. — Topsy's mischief. — Eva's re- 
quest. — The promise. — pathetic scene. — Death of Eva. — St. Clare's grief. — " For thou 
art gone forever." 

Act IV. — The lonely house. — Tom and St. Clare. — Topsy's keepsake. — Deacon 
Perry and Aunt Ophelia. — Cute on deck. — A distant relative. — The hungry visitor. — 
Chuck full of emptine.-s." — Cute and the Deac< n. — A row. — A fight. — Topsy to the 
rescue. — St. Clare woundtd. — Death of St. Clare. — " Eva— Eva — I am coming " 

Act V. — Leeree's plantation on the Red River. — Home again. — Uncle Tom's 
noble heart. — "My soul ain't yours, Mas'r." — Legree's cruel work. — Legree and Cassy. 
— The whiteslave. — A frightened brute. — Legree's fear. — A life of sin. — Marks and 
Cute. — Anew scheme. — The dreadful whipping of Uncle Tom. — Legree punished at 
last. — Death of Uncle Tom. — Eva in Heaven. 



THE WOVEN WEB. 

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS, BY CIIAS. TOWNSEND. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Seven male, three female characters, viz. : leading and second juvenile men, so- 
ciety villain, walking gentleman, eccentric comedian, old man, low comedian, leading 
juvenile lady, soubrette and old woman. Time of playing, aT hours. 'I i Woven Wso 
is a flawless drama, pure in thought and action, with excellent characiers, and pre- 
senting no difficulties in costumes or scenery. The story is captivating, with a plot 
of the most intense and unflagging interest, rising to a natural climax of wonderful 
power. The wit is bright and sparkling, the action terse, sharp and rapid. In touch- 
ing the great chord of human sympathy, the author has expended that rare skill 
which has given life to every great play known to the stage. This play has been 
produced under the author's management with marked success, and will prove 
an unquestionable attraction wherever presented. 

Synopsis of Incidents: Act I. — Parkhurst & Manning's law office, New York. 
— Tim's opinion. — The young lawyer. — " Majah Billy Toby, sah ! " — Love and law. 
—Bright prospects. — Bertha's misfortune. — A false friend. — The will destroyed. — A 
cunning plot. — Weaving the web. — The unseen witness. — The letter. — Accused. — 
Dishonored. 

Act II.— Winter quarters.— Colonel Hastings and Sergeant Tim.— Moses.— A 
message. — Tim on his dignity. — The arrival. — Playing soldier. — The secret. — The 
promise.— Harry in danger.— Love and duty.— The promise kept. — " Saved, at the 
loss of my own honor ! " 

Act III. —Drawing-room at Falconer's.— Reading the news.— "Apply to Judy ! " 
— Louise's romance. — Important news. — Bertha's fears. — Leamington's arrival. — 
Drawing the web.— Threatened.— Plotting.— Harry and Bertha.— A fiendish lie.— Face 
to face.—" Do you know him ? " — Denounced. — " Your life shall be the penalty ! "— 
Startling tableau. 

Act IV. — At Uncle Toby's. — A wonderful climate. — An impudent rascal. — A bit 
of history.— Woman's wit. — Toby Indignant. — A quarrel. — Uncle Toby's evidence. — 
Leamington's last trump. — Good news.— Checkmated.— The telegram. — Breaking 
the web. — Sunshine at last. 

Copies mailed, postpaid, to any address, on receipt *f the annexed prices. 



SAVED FROM THE WRECK. 

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, BY THOMAS A". SERRANO. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Eight male, three female characters : Leading corned}', juvenile man, genteel 
villain, rough villain, light comedy, escaped convict, detective, utility, juvenile 
lady, leading comedy lady :md old woman. Two interior and one landscape scenes. 
Modern costumes. Time of playing, two hours and a half. The scene of the action 
is laid on the New Jersey coast. The plot is of absorbing interest, the "business 1 ' 
effective, and the ingenious contrasts of comic and serious situations present a con. 
tinuous series of surprises for the spectators, whose interest is increasingly maintained 
up to the final tableau. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 

Act I. The Home of the Light-house Keeper. — An autumn afternoon. — 
The insult. — True to herself. — A fearless he -irt. —The unwelcome guest. — Only a 
foundling. — An abuse of confidence. — The new partner. — '1 he compact. — The dead 
brought to life. — Saved from the wreck. — Legal advice. — Married for money.— A 
g< 'den chance. — The intercepited letter. — A vision of wealth. — The forgery. — Within 
an inch of his life.— The rescue. — Tableau. 

Act II. Scene as befokk; time, night. — D..rk clouds gathering.— Changing 
the jackets. — Father and son. — On duty. — A struggle for fortune. — Loved for himself. 
■ — The divided greenbacks. — The agreement. — An unhappy life. — The detective's mis- 
take. — Arrested. — Mistaken iden'ity. — '1 he likeness again. — On the right track — The 
accident. — " Will she be saved ? " — Latour's bravery. — A noble sacrifice. — The secret 
meeting. — Another case of mistaken identity. — The murder. — " Who did it?" — The 
torn cuff. — "There stands the murderer!" — " 'Tis false!" — The wrong man mur- 
dered. — Who was the victim ? — Tableau. 

Act III. Two Days Later. — Plot and counterplot. — Gentleman and convict. — 
The price of her life. — Some new documents. — The divided banknotes. — Sunshine 
through the clouds. — Prepared for a watery grave — Deadly peril. — Father and daugh- 
ter. — The rising tide. — A life for a signature. — True unto death. — Saved. — The mys- 
tery solved. — Denouement. —Tableau. 



BETWEEN TWO FIRES. 

A COMEDY-DRAMA IN THREE ACTS, BY THOMAS K. SERRANO. 
PRICE, 15 CENTS. 

Eight male, three female, and utility characters : Leading juvenile man, first and 
second walking gentleman, two light com< dians (lawyer and foreign adventurer), 
Dutch and Irish character comedians, villain, soldiers ; leading juvenile lady, walk- 
ing lady and comedienne. Three interior scenes ; modern and military costumes. 
Time of playing, two hours and a half. Apart from unusual interest of plot and skill 
of construction, the play affords an opportunity of representing the progress of a 
real battle in the distance (though this is not necessary to the action). The comedy 
business is delicious, if well worked up, and a startling phase of the slavery question 
is sprung upon the audience in the last act. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 

Act I. At Fort Lee, on the Hudson. — News from the war. — The meeting. 
— The colonel's strange romance. — Departing for the war. — The intrusted packet. — An 
honest man. — A last request. — Bitter hatred. — The dawn of love. — A northerner's 
sympathy for the South. — Is he a traitor ?— Held in trust. — La Creole mine for sale. — 
Financial agents. — A brother's wrong. — An order to cross the enemy's lines. — For- 
tune's fool. — Love's penalty. — Man's independence. — Strange disclosures. — A sha- 
dowed life. — Beggared in pocket, and bankrupt in love. — His last chance. — The re- 
fusal. — Turned from home. — Alone, without a name — Off to the war. — Tableau. 

Act II. On the Battlefield. — An Irishman's philosophy. — Unconscious of 
danger. — Spies in the camp. — The insult. — Risen from the ranks. — The colonel's prej- 
udice. — Letters from home. — The plot to ruin. — A token of love. — True to him. — 
The plotters at work. — Breaking the seals. — The meeting of husband and wife. — A 
forlorn hope. — Doomed as a spy. — A struggle for lost honor. — A soldier's death.— 
Tableau. 

Act III. Before Richmond. — The home of Mrs. De Mori. — The two docu- 
ments. — A little misunderstanding. — A deserted wife. — The truth revealed. — Brought 
to light. — Mother and child. — Rowena's sacrifice. — The American Eagle spreads his 
wings. — The spider's web. — True to himself. — The reconciliation. — A long divided 
home reunited. — The close of the war. — Tableau. 



58F~ Co/>iet mailed, postpaid ' , to any address, on r&c-e-ipt of the annexed prices. 



H. THEYRE SMITH'S PLAYS. 

Price, 1 5 Cents Each. 

A CASE FOR EVICTION. One male and two female characters— light corned an, 
lady comedian and servant. Interior scene ; modern costumes ; time of playing, 
thirty minutes. This breezy little play is so true to life that everybody enjoj s it 
and, as a matter of course, it is always highly successful. A young husband and 
wife have a visitor who makes them twice glad — g]ad when he conies and doubly 
glad when he goes. The difficulties that the young couple experience in getting 
rid of their guest, without hurting his feelings, are laughable in the extreme. 
The guest, by the way, is heard but not seen — which fact gives rise to much 
comic <\ business. No scenery whatever is required; and, as every-day costumes 
are worn, the piece can be produced successfully withourMie slightest trouble. 

CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. Two male and one female characters- 
juvenile man, old man and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; modern cos- 
tumes; time of playing, forty-five minutes. An exceedingly popular play, offering 
unusual opportunities tor good acting. A young man who has married without 
his uncle's consent is cut off with a shilling. Hut the uncle meets his nephew's 
wife — not knowing who she is — and is so captivated bv her wit, grace and beauty 
that, on learning who she is, he changes his mind, reinstates his nephew and 
allows the latter to return the shilling. The dialogue is witty, the action rapid, 
and the situations effective. 

A HAPPY PAIR. One male, one female character — both light comedy. Scene, a 
nicely furnished room ; modern costumes ; time of playing, forty-five minutes. A 
brisk little play, full of action and giving numerous opportunities for clever work. 
While entirely free from all "low-comedy" business, it contains enough humor 
to be highly diverting. The quarrels of the " happy pair," and their final recon- 
ciliation can not fail to pler.se, and the play is sure to give entire satisfaction 
either in the parlor or as a " curtain raiser" or afterpiece. 

MY LORD IN LIVERY. Four male and three female characters — light comedian, 
low comedian, old man, utility, lady comedian and two walking ladies. Parlor 
scene ; modern costumes ; time of playing, fifty minutes. An unusually bright 
piece brimming over with wit and humor. The three young Indies who permit a 
comic servant to meet them on terms of equality under the belief that he is a 
nobleman masquerading like themselves — the happy-go-lucky young nobleman 
who is mistaken fcr a burglar — the comical old butler — all have a vast deal of 
laughable by-play and business. This play whs a pronounced success in New 
York, and has been presented to crowded houses in all the principal cities of this 
country. The ease with whi:h it may be staged, and the invariable success which 
attends it, make My Lord in Livery peculiarly adapted to the use of amateurs. 

UNCLE'S WILL. Two male and one female characters — juvenile lead, rid man 
and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; costumes, modern ; time of playing, 
thirty minutes. This brilliant little play is a prime favorite in both Europe and 
America, and is admirably adapted to the use of amateurs. The wit flashes 
like a diamond, and the dainty bits of humor scattered here and there keep up a 
constant ripple of pleased excitement. Each character is a star part. The dash- 
ing young naval t fficer, the comical old man — in which Mr. Davidge made a 
pronounced hit at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York— and the bright and 
spirited young lady, all are first class and worthy of the best talent in any dramatic 
club. 

WHICH IS WHICH. Three male, three female characters — juvenile man, old 
man, utility, two juvenile ladies and old woman. Scene, a studio ; costumes, 
modern; time of pla\ ing, fifty minutes. Excellent and much patronized by 
amateurs. The amusing perplexities of the poor artist, who can not tell which of 
his visitors is the heiress and which h^r penniless friend — who mistakes one for 
the other — who makes love to the rich girl, supposing that she is poor, and deter- 
mines to marry her in spite of her supposed poverty — and who finally discovers 
that he has proposed to the heire s after all — combine to make this a delightful 
play. 



' Any of the above will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt 
of the annexed prices. As there are several editions of these plays offered for sale, 
good, bad and indifferent, purchasers will consult their own interests, when order- 
ing, by specifying Roorbach's edition. 



HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. 



NEW ENTERTAINMENTS. 

THE JAPANESE WEDDING. 

& costume pantomime representation of the Wedding Ceremony in Japanese high life. 
The company consists of the bride and groom, their parents, six bridesmaids, and 
the officiating personage appropriately called the " Go-between." There are 
various formalities, including salaams, tea-drinking, eating rice-cakes, and giving 
presents. No words are .spoken. The ceremony (which occupies about 50 
minutes), with the "tea-room," fills out an evening well, though music and other 
attractions may be added. Can be represented by young ladies alone, if preferred. 
Price, 25 Cents. 

AN EVENING WITH PICKWICK. 

A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces the Pickwick Club, 
the Wardles of Dingley Dell, the Fat Boy, Alfred Jingle, Mrs. Leo Hunter, Lord 
Mutanhed and Count Smorltork, Arabella Allen and Bob Allen, Bob Sawyer, Mrs. 
and Master Bardell, Mrs. Cluppins, Mrs. VVeller, Stiggins, Tony Weller, Sam 
Weller, and the Lady Traveller. Price, 25 cents. 

AN EVENING WITH COPPERFIELD. 

A Literary and Dramatic Dickens Entertainment. — Introduces Mrs. Copperfield, 
Davie, the Peggotys, the Murdstones, Mrs. Gummidge, Little Em'ly, Barkis, 
Betsey Trotwood, Mr. Dick and his kite, Steerforth, the Creakles, Traddles, 
Rosa Dartle, Miss Mowcher, Uriah Heep and his Mother, the Micawbers, Dora 
and Gyp, and the wooden-legged Gatekeeper. Price, 25 cents. 
These " Evenings with Dickens " can be represented in whole or in part, require 
but little memorizing, do not demand experienced actors, are not troublesome to pre- 
pare, and are suitable for performance either on the platform or in the drawing room. 

THE GYPSIES' FESTIVAL. 

A Musical Entertainment for Young People. Introduces the Gypsy Queen, Fortune 
Teller, Yankee Peddler, and a Chorus of Gypsies, of any desired number. The 
scene is supposed to be a Gypsy Camp. The costumes are very pretty, but 
simple ; the dialogue bright ; the music easy and tuneful ; and the drill movements 
and calisthenics are graceful. Few properties and no set scenery required, so 
that the entertainment can be represented on any platform. Price, 25 cents. 

THE COURT OF KING CHRISTMAS. 

A CHRISTMAS ENTERTAINMENT. The action takes place in Santa Claus 
land on Christmas eve, and represents the bustling preparations of St. Nick and 
his attendant worthies for the gratification of all children the next day. The cast 
may include as many as 36 characters, though fewer will answer, and the enter- 
tainment represented on a platform, without troublesome properties. The cos- 
tumes are simple, the incidental music and drill movements graceful and easily 
managed, the dialogue uncommonly good, and the whole thing quite above the 
average. A representation of this entertainment will cause the young folks, from 
six to sixty, fairly to turn themselves inside out with delight, and, at the same 
time, enforce the important moral of Peace and Good Will. Price, 25 cents. 
RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 

ILLUSTRATED TABLEAUX FOR AMATEURS. A new series of Tableaux 
Viz/ants, by Martha C. Weld. In this series each description is accompanied 
with a full-page illustration of the scene to be represented. 
PART I.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains General Introduction, 

12 Tableaux and 14 Illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. 
PART II.— MISCELLANEOUS TABLEAUX.— Contains Introduction, 12 Ta- 
bleaux and 12 illustrations. Price, 25 Cents. 

SAVED FROM THE WRECK. A drama in three acts. Eight male, three 
female characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 

BETWEEN TWO FIRES. A comedy-drama in three acts. Eight male, three 
f<-male characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 

BY FORCE OF IMPULSE. A drama in five acts. Nine male, three female 
characters. Time, two hours and a half. Price, 15 Cents. 

A LESSON IN ELEGANCE. A comedy in one act. Four female characters. 
Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. 

WANTED, A CONFIDENTIAL CLERK. A farce in one act. Six male 
characters. Time, thirty minutes. Price, 15 Cents. 

SECOND SIGHT. A farcical comedy in one act. Four male, one female charac- 
ter. Time, one hour. Price, 15 Cents. 

THE TRIPLE WEDDING. A drama in three acts. Four male, four female 
characters. Time, one hour and a quarter. Price, 15 cents. 
TSMT'Any 0/ the above will be sent by wall, postpaid, to any address, on receipt 

vf the an nexed p r ices. „J|£l 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



HELMER'S 014 529 017 P I 

ACTOR'S MAKE-UP BOOK. g| 

^ Practical and Systematic Guide to the Art of Making vj> fjr the Stage. 



PRICE, 25 CENTS. 



With exhaustive treatment on the Use of Theatrical 
Wigs and Beards, The Make-up and its requisite materials,, the 
different features and their management, typical character 
Masks, etc. With Special Hints to Ladies. Designed for the 
use of Actors and Amateurs, and for both Ladies and Gentle- 
men. Copiously Illustrated. 

CONTENTS. 

I. Theatrical Wigs. — The Style and Form of Theatrical Wigs 
and Beards. The Color and Shading of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. 
Directions for Measuring the Head. To put on a Wig properly. 

II. Theatrical Beards. — How to fashion a Beard out of crepe 
tiair. How to make Beards of Wool. The growth of Beard simu- 
lated. 

III. The Make-up — A successful Character Mask, and how to 
make it. Perspiration during performance, how removed. 

IV. The Make-up Box. — Grease Paints. Grease paintL in 
sticks; Flesh Cream ; Face Powder; How to use face powder as a 
liquid cream ; The various shades of face powder. Water Cos- 
roetrque. Nose Putty. Court Plaster. Cocoa Butter. Cr£pe Hair 
and Prepared Wool. Grenadine. Dorin's Rouge. " Old Man's" 
Rouge. "Juvenile" Rouge. Spirit Gum. Email Noir. Bear's 
Grease. Eyebrow Pencils. Artist's Stomps. Powder Puffs. Hares* 
Feet. Camels'-hair Brushes. 

V. The Features and their Treatment. — The Eyes : blind- 
ness. The Eyelids. The Eyebrows : How to paint out an eyebrow or 

moustache ; How to paste on eyebrows ; How to regulate bushy eye- 
brows. The Eyelashes : To alter the appearance of the eyes. The 
Ears. The Nose : A Roman nose ; How to use the nose putty ; A 
pug nose ; An African nose ; a large nose apparently reduced in size. 
The Mouih and Lips : a juvenile mouth ; an old mouth ; a sensuous 
mouth ; a satirical mouth ; a one-sided mouth ; a merry mouth ; A 
sullen mouth. The Teeth. The Neck, Arms, Hands and Finger- 
nails : Fingernails lengthened. Wrinkles: Friendliness and Sullen- 
ness indicated by wrinkles. Shading. A Starving character. A 
Cut in the Face. A Thin Face Made Fleshy. 

VI. Typical Character Masks. — The Make-up for Youth : 
Dimpled cheeks. Manhood. Middle Age. Making up as a Drunk- 
ard : One method ; another method. Old Age. Negroes. Moors. 
Chinese. King Lear. Shylock. Macbeth. Richelieu. Statuary. 
Clowns. 

VII. Special Hints to Ladies. — The Make-up. Theatrical 
Wigs and Hair Goods. 

Sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on reeer/H f the prh e. 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 

9 Murray Street, New York. 



